Halo: Valor
by Jacob R. Dring
Summary: Follow John-117 in this sort of prequel to the first Halo video-game. Here John is slightly more talkative than later in his militaristic life & finds amazing hostility in the Covenant as he battles alongside a gallant Sgt Johnson. Reviews appreciated.
1. Chapter 1

**Author****'****s Note**

Don't know much about the _Halo_ universe? Don't worry, I've made this as comprehensible as possible but still maintain some secrecies and the natural subtlety of the everlasting plot.

This story takes place on and off of the planet Reach, humanity's second colonized planet after Earth got overwhelmingly crowded. It takes place in the face of a ruthless alien conglomerate called the Covenant whom are composed of numerous subspecies, all of which have the sole goal of eliminating the human race in their journey to triumphant salvation.

There will be little mentioning of the actual Halo ring-world, however, in this story. This novella focuses on the early life of John-117, newly the Master Chief, in his first battles against the Covenant since his fellow Spartans died not long ago. Everything except for the plot regarding Sgt. Johnson's capture and the Chief's battle to recover him stick strictly to the _Halo_ 'guidelines,' such as weaponry specifics and Covenant subspecies, UNSC battle tactics, and various architectural details.

On the Contrary, while this will be enjoyable to newcomers to the Xbox-hit franchise, fans of the trilogy games up until the 9/25/07 release of the final _Halo __3_, may be slightly confused. Some words of introductory advice to these readers: Cortana has yet to meet the Master Chief as has any of the Keyes relatives; Sergeant Major Avery Johnson has been comrades with the Chief for only a couple weeks now; the Arbiter technically doesn't exist yet, as don't the 'good' Elites; the Brutes are present in the Covenant's subspecies, but are used as dogs and torturing techniques against captured humans.

However, some things may baffle fans of the trilogy in here, that being primarily the concoction I've used of new and old weaponry, vehicles, and aliens. So there will be Scarabs in here although they weren't even seen by the UNSC until _Halo 2_, but there won't be Drones or deployable gadgetry, yet there will be the caseless SMGs, Jackal sniper rifles, and Mongooses.

Despite any of the contingent perplexity, I hope that all readers will enjoy it.

Like the video games, it is intended only for mature audiences, although while not visually graphic it is by means of literacy. Profanity is only mild, but vivid violence and gore is explicit. Some humor intact and the necessary implementation of valiant themes, _Halo: Valor_ is intended to be a laudable non-profit prequel to the eminent series!

Industrial Note: this story is not intended to be in any way competition to the current five novels, of which I've read three and completely acknowledge, as well as admire. This story, although borrowing concepts from the _Halo_ franchise, will not be sold or used in any commercial or lucrative methods. It is a piece of fan-fiction written by myself solely for literal entertainment by readers be they fans or novices to the _Halo_ chronicles. Thus I grant absolute gratitude and respect to Bungie Studios for this momentous production. And my own, for fun.

Thank you,

_Jacob Dring_

Chapter One

John-117 has never spoken this length before, not since he was entered into the SPARTAN-II project. Not since…not since he was six, when he was taken in by the UNSC on planet Reach in an attempt to produce the most battle-proficient bioengineered super-soldier. Not since _he_ became that soldier, and especially not since his fellow Spartans were killed just six days ago.

Sure, the Covenant has silenced him but only temporarily. Though his voice be low and sustained, his actions will echo through eternity.

"The UNSC provides an effectual assortment of weaponry for your protection during defensive measures and for the goal of mankind against the Covenant in effective offensive procedures."

His voice was low, but solid. In the large area in which he stood before fifty Marines, all recruits and novices, John could hear the slightest noise and even discern who was actually paying attention. Being a Master Chief Petty Officer, John was fully authorized to whip these young men into shape—but wouldn't, or at least not physically. He had said before this assembly that for whomever did not heed his words of advice and verbal training, would thus pay for it in battle.

They were located inside a UNSC arsenal tent, where the majority of the mobile base's weapons were cached. It was 1850 hours, and the evening murk was slowly setting down on them. Knowing how the Covenant eccentrically prefer sunlit battles rather than in the darkness, the night was UNSC's only few hours of rest. And that's only if the Covenant weren't feeling bold, which they usually are.

But John had his mind set on only one thing right now, and that's what he was doing.

Introducing the weapons—both man's and alien—to these inexperienced Marines is imperative to their novice knowledge. It still felt…odd…to be talking so much, for so long. He hasn't had a real conversation since…since Sam-114 died, since their training days back on Reach; they remained on Reach, but what John knew of this planet remained no more. That was courtesy of the ruthless Covenant.

"First off," John continued, standing in front of an oblong table whose surface was mottled with an variety of armaments, "all Marines are equipped with this standard-issue pistol."

With each weaponry introduction John made, he picked-up the gun and held it for everyone to see. Like a teacher lecturing his students.

"This is the M6G Personal Defense Weapon System, a variant of the M6D. It uses 12.7mm semi-AP explosive-tipped rounds, giving the pistol great potency but this power comes at the cost of magazine capacity and accuracy. The M6G can hold up to eight rounds and is effective up to fifty meters. Nonetheless, it is compact and reliable, with an attached laser-sight integrated just above the muzzle."

"And ya can dual-wield it, right?" someone asked.

"Cowboy style," somebody else hooted, "oh _yeah_!"

The throng of Marines chuckled but the vacant expression on John's helmeted fascia quickly silenced them.

And then he spoke, nodding gently, "Yes, its size of about ten inches and five pounds makes it considerably easy to wield two of them simultaneously, but be aware that usage during this manner usually results in a further lack of accuracy and range."

"Yeah, except for when _you_ put the touch on 'em, eh, Chief?"

John simpered under the obscurely gold surface of his visor, then continued by returning the pistol and retrieving another, larger weapon.

"Now this is one of two of UNSC's primary assault weapons," John continued. "It is the MA5B Individual Combat Weapon System, more commonly known as the Assault Rifle, or AR. Weighing a soft eight pounds and at nearly three feet long, the MA5B is an ideal bullpup weapon offering limited accuracy and range but considerable stopping power. The sixty-bulleted magazine is composited of armor-piercing full metal jacketed 7.62mm rounds, but the incredible rate-of-fire—915 RPM—can swiftly deplete the clip, faster than you may imagine."

"What about the—?"

"The digital display, Marine?" John interjected, smiling under his visor.

_These Marines are sharp,_ he thought, though hesitantly, _or at least some of them are…_

The Marine whom had spoken went mum but nodded.

"Yes, there is a triangular digital display positioned just above the breech; facing the user, it exhibits the remaining ammunition in the current clip via a numerical count, as well as a compassing arrow indicating the location of the gas giant Threshold."

"Th-threshold?" one Marine, particularly younger than the others, asked in a stammer. Everybody gawked at him in silence, then broke out in jeering laughter. The youth blushed, but repeated his question just the same.

John silenced the other Marines with his blank glare, then spoke in response to the one Marine's question. Sure, the majority of UNSC personnel are familiar with Threshold, but not all—and John is here to teach, so school he shall.

"Threshold is an immense planet whose core is composed of liquid nitrogen, and whose moon—Basis—is twice the size of Earth. Anyhow, the Covenant's ancestry, the Forerunners—used this gas giant as a mining complex until they discovered the Flood, whence they analyzed them during the construction of the first Halo. Being the nearest gas giant in our solar system, the indicator on the MA5B's ammunition counter acts perfectly as a compass. In case, that is, you get lost."

"But _you_ don't get lost, do ya, Chief!?"

John never paid attention to who precisely hooted these things, for when they're not strict questions like the one he just answered, they may as well be ignored.

"As for the BR55," John continued, shunting the Marine's gallant remark, and replacing the MA5B with another assault rifle, "accuracy and range are present at the cost of rate-of-fire and potential might."

The BR55 Battle Rifle is also an AR of the bullpup weaponry design, however, has a much more unique look to it. A scope was attached to the arching rail above the barrel whereas a six-inch muzzle jutted forth with three long grooves to the tip.

"It is slightly longer than the MA5B due to the presence of an extended muzzle, which is grooved to fit the suitability of the firing mode. A firing mode standard with the BR55 and unchangeable, is the impressively effective three-round burst. A well trained soldier," John was saying, thinking haughtily _such as I_, "can fire 2.4 bursts per second, and with the aid of the 2-times magnification scope, accuracy has never been better for an assault rifle. The only drawbacks, of course, is a lack of any fully-automatic modes of fire, resulting in sustained bursts of strength. This firepower comes from 9.5mm high-velocity semi-armor-piercing rounds, of which one magazine can hold up to thirty-six."

"Say, which do _you_ prefer, Chief?" one of the Marines asked, his voice sounding intrigued for an honest answer.

"Well," John said, delaying such a simple response to give the impression that he was actually thinking, "it really depends on your situation. If you were fighting against a platoon of Grunts and say one Elite in a rock valley, you'd take-up the MA5B without a question; because at close quarters such as that and with a bunch of ditzy Grunts scurrying about, the inaccurate full-auto mode would be perfect. However, if you were crawling on a catwalk overlooking a squad of Jackals, bring the Battle Rifle for precise, medium-range shots to sneak a few rounds just behind their shields.

"It's all in the situation, Marines…"

"Talking 'bout close quarters combat, Chief," the Marine who'd inquired about Threshold said, with an avid grin, "when we gonna get to the scatterguns?"

The other Marines jostled each other with laughter that sounded greedily eager, like a bunch of young Rambos wanting to blast something.

John nodded, almost to himself, as he set down the BR55 on the table and put his hands on the UNSC shotgun. He griped it firmly, drawing good memories of both battle and practice from his retention. Then he raised it, and began its own lecture.

"Speaking of short-ranged situations, _Marine_, here is the United Nations Space Command's best response to those damned Elites who just wanna get up in your face!"

"Hoo-ra!" the crowd bellowed.

"It's heavy though, so take it like it's an extension of your arm…the M90 Shotgun is also known as the CAWS, or Close Assault Weapon System. At four feet long and almost twelve pounds, though, it's often difficult to manage—especially during combat. The M90 is an extremely effectual close-quarters weapon, however, using eight gauge magnum rounds—3.75-inch shells—resulting in extreme recoil, extraordinary damage, and a low magazine count. The tubular magazine, which is fed _above_ rather than below, can hold a maximum of six buckshot shells simultaneously. It is a manually-operated pump-action shotgun whose effective range exceeds no more than thirty meters, at which even then it is not suggested. Only in very short ranges is the M90 used best; it is also default with an attached flashlight fixated to the front of the sliding stock."

"What 'bout them energy swords the Elites have…?"

"They self-destruct seconds after the owner is killed, which most of you may never se in combat, for those sort of weapons are only carried by the highest-ranking Elites, whom only I have the honor of meeting."

"Forget the Elites, what about what they _drive_, man!?" another Marine howled. "The Banshees, and the Wraiths…what do we use to take them things down, eh?"

_Glad you asked,_ John thought, gently returning the M90 back to its space on the tabletop. He eyed the hand grenade and rocket-launcher each before lifting the prior first, holding it high above his head while he talked.

"As you most should know," he said, "alike the M6G pistol, every Marine is required to carry at least two of these into battle with him. It is the essential explosive device of the UNSC military, and in many ways is in great advantage to the Covenant plasma grenade. This is the M9 HE-DP fragmentation grenade, whose classic pineapple design makes it very recognizable amid any other similar devices. It is activated via a single red button at the metallic head of the spherical grenade, where it is primed with a five-second timer. A rigid surface allows for an efficient grip but the smooth composition provides for easy bounces if you were to toss it around a corner or into a fissure where your target lies. Small and lightweight, the highly-explosive dual-purpose M9 is just less than a single pound and has a diameter roughly four inches. Its blast radius is a grand forty feet, with a stricter kill radius of fifteen.

"In comparison," John said with an inaudible sigh, placing the grenade back down on the table, "the Type-1 Antipersonnel, or the plasma grenade of the Covenant—which we unfortunately do not have a specimen—varies widely and significantly. It is inactive in your hand, until you prime it via a button in the center, and has a more lengthy eight-second timer, making for a primary weakness…"

"Why they call it a 'sticky grenade,' Chief?"

"Because, Marine, it _sticks_," John replied, and a broad mass of the crowd laughed. "Once it's been primed and thrown, the next surface it touches it will adhere to. Now this excludes most armor plating, depending on the force of the throw and the distance. I've found it to be easy to stick against a Banshee's fuselage, but a Wraith is for whatever reason more difficult—perhaps because it's a more coarse surface than the Banshee's slick armoring…I can't say for sure, but that'd be my guess. Anyhow, once activated it emits a swirl of blue harmless plasma which continues even once stuck to a surface. The fact that it has a lengthy timer results in the ability for targets to flee once it hits; however, the adherence capability allows you to stick it to a Grunt's back and watch him flop around in fright for a few seconds before being obliterated."

The Marines laughed and jeered mockery at those petty Grunts.

"_However_," John abruptly snapped, silencing them, "because three-out-of-four Marines are unable to properly use a plasma grenade their first few times, its adherence capabilities and long timer make for both a pro-and-con for _us_ on the _defensive_ side. If you seen a blue sphere coming at you in a swirl of plasmatic mist, you _move_. Unlike a fragmentation grenade, you can't pick one of these up and throw it back to its user—because then you'll have it permanently stuck to your palm."

"Seems like _their_ 'nades are better than ours."

"Not necessarily," John said, groping for the large rocket launcher to his left. As he did so, he talked about just why the UNSC hand grenade is in one way much better than the Covenant's. "Whereas the M9 has a wide casualty radius of forty feet, the plasma grenade has a much more limited distance of twenty-five feet. Also, the plasma grenade's visibility is high due to the surrounding plasmatic haze and light color, while the M9 is dark green and solid."

"Which one's smaller, Chief?"

"Well, the M9 is two inches smaller around the waist but is more oblong than the perfectly spherical Type-1, so ultimately I'd say the Covenant's plasma grenade. But it really shouldn't matter of size…unless, of course, you're talking about _this_—"

The Marines raised their heads and peered at the rocket launcher the Chief held up, gasping in avidity.

"The four-and-a-half foot-long M19 SSM weighs a hefty sixteen pounds—_unloaded_—and packs the most deleterious effect of all UNSC weaponry. It suits the user for any antipersonnel intentions, for one single rocket may demolish as many as five Grunts simultaneously if aimed right. Each rocket is 102mm shape-charged high-explosive SSMs—"

"SSM?" somebody asked.

"Surface-to-surface missile," another Marine answered before the Chief could.

"As I was saying, the ammunition for this weapon is quite unlike a grenade launcher you may have seen back home. Instead of being a single-shot MAW, it totes two conjoined barrels each preloaded with a single HEAT—highly-explosive anti-tank—rocket, and after the first shot the empty barrel rotates to position the second. Reloading, however, is the biggest letdown of this weapon, but we all know we can't carry around a nuke without some sort of negative…during reloading, you—" and as he spoke, John demonstrated with the in-hand M19 SSM, but with empty barrels "—unlatch the ammunition box, which is labeled with the warning sign as to how you hold it, and remove the two barrels to their entirety. The barrels may be discarded completely just like a spent shell casing, because in order to reload you must carry a UNSC-labeled metallic case which holds the two auxiliary barrels. Obviously, this is a lot to hold, so I'll have no Marine thinking you're Superman and can hold two cases with the current 'launcher itself. I'd rather have shot Marines in the line-of-duty than Marines who've broken their backs."

He waited a couple seconds to see if anyone was going to remark how _he_ was Superman, and could—and does—do just that. After nothing, he continued.

"The M19 also has a small scope with 2-times magnification and is necessary when targeting a mobile enemy."

"Ah, man, don't tell me—it's _homing_!?"

Most of the Marines chortled until John confirmed the one's inquisition.

"Peering through the scope, you hold a button on the side of the ammunition casing with the reticule placed over your target—let's say a Ghost—for the required time. If I'm correct, it's three to five seconds, depending on the speed of your target. This evidently makes it difficult to lock-on, but once—and _if_—you do have it locked, in which the weapon will beep in signification, pull the trigger but keep the button pressed…until your target is stricken, you may only then release the button. Each 102mm rocket can pursue a mobile target either until it hits a hindrance, comes in contact with the target, or runs out of fuel.

"Now remember—rockets may only be homed-in-on targets that are large and moving. This excludes _any_ sort of infantry. Ghosts are usually the only thing, and Banshees, because Wraiths are too slow of a vehicle to be targeted. But if they're that slow, then hit it with a straight rocket and see how that does."

"Hoo-ra!"

Gingerly returning the rocket launcher to its place on the table, John surveyed what else he needed to go-over of the UNSC arsenal. He decided to lecture on the SMG and sniper rifle then transition to the limited Covenant weaponry he had access to. It was one helluva long table.

"Now, here is one of my favorites, since I suppose you'd ask," John said, bringing his gloved fingers to the submachine-gun. "The M7 Caseless SMG is the UNSC medium-range weapon of choice, in great similarities save design to the MA5B. It utilizes caseless ammunition of the 5mm FMJ type, unique not only in small caliber but in composition: being caseless, the sixty rounds are stored in an oblong magazine fed into the weapon's chamber on the left side near the breech, each bullet without a metallic casing sealing the propellant and primer together but instead stuck together with a special chemical adherence. During use, thus, there is no ejection of any spent casings because—there are no casings. This results in an extreme efficiency in the weapon's management, although accuracy still suffers at long ranges due to increased recoil. Nonetheless, at close quarters it is an extraordinary full-auto weapon to have, especially with a high-capacity magazine. And with an impressive rate-of-fire at 900 rounds-per-minute, the M7 SMG's small caliber ammunition is exploited with remarkable potency."

"Plus," a Marine commented, raising his forefinger and smiling, "its size results in the effortless maneuverability making it easy to…dual-wield…?"

_Was that a statement or inquisition?_ John asked himself, then shunted the notion.

"Considering the heavy recoil, I would not advise attempting to wield two of these simultaneously. Understood Marines?"

"Yes, _Sir_," they all replied in unison, some of them more strongly than others.

"However, that _is_ a nice point, Marine," John noted, "the compact size and design of the weapon give it perfect mobility whereas the MA5B requires more control. The M7 is approximately two feet long and weighs a light four pounds. It is composed of a titanium body but is equipped with polymer handle, foregrip, and stock. The foregrip allows additional handling due to the high recoil when fired at full-auto."

"What's that, Chief?" somebody asked, pointing above other Marines' heads at what John presumed was the sniper rifle.

_I'm getting to it,_ John thought agitatedly. He's realized that these young men are growing greedy by the minute, eager to get their hands on some guns and kick some Covenant ass.

John therefore sped up his routine, although at this growing night he doubted they would be on the move no earlier than dawn.

"The imposing 99D-S2 AM is the UNSC's most effective long-range weapon of choice, with a maximum efficacy distance of 800 meters…that's almost half a mile, Marines. Talk about the advantage of killing an Elite without having to get up in his face—"

"Hoo-ra!"

"And with precision accuracy, it's hard to miss a target, unless he's running. But with the aid of an electronic scope offering both 5-times and 10-times magnification, and the option of nightvision, it's very difficult to miss. And the high-caliber is a plus if the shot hits. The rifle itself, however, has its own cons to these pros: the size, weight, and clip capacity make it slightly less than it wholly is. If you think the SSM is long, try out _this_—" although the 7'0" Spartan wielded the rifle effortlessly, most Marines would not be able to so easily "—it's got an extremely long barrel that makes-up for more than half the rifle's six-foot length, but does not composite the greater amount of its weight."

John wasn't about to tell the Marines just how much it weighed; they already knew it was heavy, and John wanted to hurry things up a bit. As he returned the rifle to its spot on the table, he ended his lecture on it.

"This length and weight, plus heavy recoil for a single shot, make the AM sniper's rifle most proficient when stationary. This is why it comes standard with an integrated biped situated just below the barrel where it passes over the forestock. So I advise _everyone_, no matter how confident you are in your own strength, to lie prone—if not just sitting—and position yourself so that the rifle is stationary; mobile usage of the 99D-S2 often results in sheer inaccuracy and the inability to control recoil. The padding on the butt of the rifle is for your shoulder, but when not used properly it doesn't matter if you've got a _pillow_ there…so station yourself before firing.

"Clip capacity is also a downer for the AM, with only _four_ rounds per detachable magazine. Of course, with such high-caliber bullets as the 14.5mm APFSDS ammunition, you'd only expect this with reason—"

"AP-what, Sir?" somebody asked with perplexity overwhelming curiosity. A few other Marines giggled.

"APFSDS," John replied, "which is an acronym for armor-piercing fin-stabilized discarding sabot, a type of bullet composed of steel casings and a hardened core of depleted uranium allowing maximum penetration. The four fins mounted around the bullet give it utmost velocity per shot, additionally permitting tremendous accuracy with a hit ratio of 97.3 percent."

A low, impressed whistle seemed to be blown almost in unison by the crowd of Marines.

"Covenant weapons, as you all should know," John said, replacing the sniper rifle in his hands with the plasma rifle, "use plasmatic ammunition. Except for the rare Covenant Carbine, UNSC still does not know how to replace or restore a depleted energy core in weapons like the plasma rifle and plasma pistol. More specifically, the plasma rifle is the Type-25 Directed Energy Rifle."

"A rifle?" a Marine inquired. "Kinda small to be considered a _rifle_…more like an SMG, I'd say."

John shrugged. "We call it the plasma rifle, it is called the plasma rifle by the Covenant. It is of rifle ilk, in their standards. Apart from being more the size of a submachine-gun than assault rifle, the plasma rifle is considerably larger than the plasma pistol, taking-up the majority of the user's arm—on Elites and me, that's only the forearm. Besides, it's heavy, too, at thirteen pounds…

"_Anyhow_," John said, minor vexation in his voice, while below the visor he rolled his eyes, "the plasma rifle uses an energy core in which it draws its 'ammunition,' so to speak. Supposing shots are taken with fair intervals, the UNSC has determined the plasma rifle has a maximum output of 400 charges per power core. However, something _all_ users need to know, is that if the rifle is fired full-auto for a long amount of time—usually no longer than ten seconds, max—then it'll overheat; this causes it to delay ensuing shots for the next five to eight seconds. This also, depending on the frailty of the user, may in fact give him or her a sort of freezer-burn to their hands or arms. This is the same with the plasma pistol and the boosting abilities, sort of, with both the Wraith tanks and Ghost hovercrafts. In spite of this, moderate accuracy at an effective fifty meters and a smoldering potential make the plasma rifle quite outstanding."

"Who totes 'em, Chief?"

"Elites do, and only Elites. Jackals and Grunts use plasma pistols exclusively, with some exceptions. But as for the plasma rifle, it is the Elite's primary weapon in addition to the more seldom-seen Carbine."

"What's the gun with the crystals, Chief?" another Marine blurted.

"The Needler, you mean?" John said, sighing under his breath as he placed the Type-25 back on the table and then leaned forward, hands empty. "We don't have a Needler or plasma pistol with us here, but the Needler _is_ a marvelous weapon on the Covenant's part."

"How so?" somebody asked.

"It shoots _crystals_, duh!"

"They're needles, dumbass!"

"Nah, man," another exclaimed, "they're crystals. Just 'cause it's called the Needler don't mean it shoots nee—"

"Hey!" John snapped. The Marines silenced. John readjusted himself, but still leaned forward with hands placed on the edge of the tabletop.

"The Needler," he said with a fortified but consistently monotonous voice, "is as bizarre as it is eccentrically unique. The ammunition is why, chiefly, but as is _how_ it works and _how_ its shots home-in-on its targets. Not needles, but if it must be classified by either of these terms then crystals would be it. The Needler utilizes pink, translucent, crystalline projectiles which are shot from the upper portion of the handheld weapon that must be practiced with before used proficiently. I apologize that we don't have any here now with us, but all that needs to be known about them is really just _what_ they do, not _how_ they do it.

"Each crystalline projectile, which are individually about four inches long, will home-in-on its target in a way that is still unknown, but evidently effective. The UNSC believes that it uses some sort of integrated AI to tell it what surfaces are organically able to be targeted. Because, afterall, these projectiles aren't made of steel and will only penetrate fleshy surfaces such as us or the Covenant, even myself or the Elite's shielded bodies. It will otherwise ricochet off of a Jackal's shield, a wall or rock or tree, or the armor of any known vehicle. Once the crystalline projectile has been embedded in the flesh, it will swell after a few seconds to the point of explosion. A couple 'needles' having burst upon penetration will result in disorientation if not severe damage. However, many projectiles can easily kill even an Elite Zealot."

"What's it hold, fifty?"

"No, twenty. If it held as much as fifty, or even forty, we'd all be carrying them. It may still sound like the best damn weapon you've ever heard of, but I wouldn't say so. Its prominent disadvantages is that the projectiles are unfortunately slow en route to their target, they don't puncture vehicular surfaces, and their homing curve is sluggish as well as wide. Also, reloading for humans is not yet perfected; not even for myself. But those initial twenty needles can make a great difference.

"As for your opponents, well, just about all of the Covenant use them. Grunts, primarily who favor them more than the pistols but will also—though rarely—resort to the more hefty Fuel Rod Cannon. But the Needler is indeed frequent among almost all subspecies, including the Elites and, although seldom, Jackals. Hunters are also an exception to the Needler's projectiles, because of their hard armor but of course their exposed backs are in fact exposed. I won't get into that, though, because I know that before here you all have had plenty of education when it comes to your actual foes. Isn't that right, Marines?"

"Yes, _Sir_!"

Chapter Two

John began to say something when his keen hearing caught distant sounds. They were faint but he distinguished them as screams and gunfire.

"Chief, what's that?" somebody asked, under his breath but dynamic with uncertainty and fright. Everybody jumped to their feet, almost lethargically, and began groping at their sides but remembered they had yet to retrieve their weapons.

"There's fifty of you here and less than twenty weapons…grab what you can, I'll unlock the armaments cache," John said, voice heavy but composed. He left the table while the sounds increased in volume, sounds of humans screaming and UNSC gunfire in the blend of plasmatic shots and alien utterances. He referred to the UNSC weapons cache in the front of the tent, locked in a six-by-six foot metallic cage. It contained one shotgun, two ARs, three Battle Rifles, six M6G pistols, eight M9 grenades, two salvaged plasma rifles, a salvaged Carbine, and copious ammunition for each UNSC firearm.

"We're under attack!" somebody wailed, just outside the tent. The tent's opening gaped suddenly and a Marine with blood on his face limped in. Suddenly his chest opened up in a spray of gore smoldered by cerulean plasma.

The fifty recruits inside the tent rallied together at the back of the tent, while John—the Master Chief, SPARTAN-117—unlocked the weapons cache. He didn't bother fumbling with the keys and kicked-in the door, immediately reaching in for the nearest weapon. His fingers found the M90 shotgun, and then withdrew himself as the corpse fell forward flaccidly and an unseen figure entered just after it. A blue plasma rifle floated with it, and against the ivory tent with hanging battery-powered lights providing luminance, John could discern it as an Elite Spec-Op with cloaking camouflage activated.

He lunged forward at the invisible Elite, who was facing directly forward and in fact missed the Spartan to his right.

All 1,000 pounds of John-117 struck the unsuspecting Elite with tremendous force. Whence the Elite's back hit the earthen floor of the tent, the plasma rifle was knocked from unseen clawed fingers by John's wielded M90. He then, crouching over the fallen Elite, whom still blended transparently into the background, raised the shotgun for a second blow. This time John drove the polymer butt of the shotgun into what he presumed was the Elite's face, once then twice. Upon the first bludgeon, the Elite's camouflage shuddered into brief visibility; the second blow deactivated the cloak as the Elite's brain was bashed in now by John's third consecutive melee strike. He left the shogun's butt tainted in violet goop, which he didn't bother wiping off.

Standing, John glared down at the lifeless Elite, whose face was now twisted into a gruesome distortion of its original features. Eyes oozed some vile mauve liquid while its quadri-hinged mandibles were bent at awkward angles and salivated blood leaked from its maw. The Elite wore crimson armor which even now glimmered beneath the fluorescents.

"Lock and load, Marines," John said, still gazing down at his victim.

The fifty Marines huddled together, the majority of them still dazed with panic. The others gladly prepared themselves for battle; most of the men were empty-handed, however, having not yet approached the cache of weapons which now lay unguarded and open.

It took the recruits a few seconds, until John averted his eyes from the Elite corpse to his fellow Marines. And with that those unarmed dashed for the weapons cache, where they hastily equipped themselves accordingly; and even those armed with the weapons taken from the display table came to the cache in hopes of ammunition and more choices.

Meanwhile, gunfire and screams continued in the milieu, outside their tent and beyond.

"Now's not the time to choose reluctantly, Marines," John said. He planted his boot on the Elite's chest, and pressed down. Flesh gave way beneath fruitless armor. He brought the M90 shotgun to port-arms and cocked it, spitting an empty 8-gauge shell out the breech.

It looked as though the Master Chief had been carved in stone in that very glorious pose, as if it were a real-time statue.

The Marines took this into consideration—the Chief's words, that is—and hurried with their selections. In less than ten seconds all fifty Marines were equipped and prepared, although most mentally were not, for battle. It sounded like hell out there, out of this tent, where gunfire persisted and the screams of the dying were unremitting.

Every passing second that went by without John outside helping his falling comrades he felt worrisome and without purpose. But his current purpose was to lead these new soldiers into battle, whether or not they were psychologically ready.

"Stay together, trust the man beside you, and keep an alert eye," John said, stepping off from the dead Elite and facing the tent's flapping entrance. "It's dark out there, Marines, but not as dark as death. So stay strong."

Many of what John-117 said to his subordinate Marines were derived from his loyal but newfound comrade Sergeant Major Avery J. Johnson, whom he's yet to see since his first day in battle with the man a week earlier. From what John knew, Sgt. Johnson was currently located nine clicks away at an overtaken Covenant base which was seized at 0500 hours yesterday. Despite their relatively short times together, mainly in battle, John and Avery have shared a bond unlike any other Marines and the Master Chief. Thus John as borrowed some of Sgt. Johnson's more sympathetic remarks than his fierce but necessarily strict comments.

These words kept the Marines at bay of losing their minds in the mist of brutal onslaughts dealt by the enemy Covenant, although being their first time in combat the recruits remain in fear. Even the most tough, hardass novice Marines cannot bury the apprehension which lurks in the chasms of their minds…

"Let's move out, Marines," John snapped, activating the flashlight fixed to the M90 and hunkering as he exited the tent. "To the tents!"

John's only strategy was to go where help was needed, kill as many Covenant as possible and prepare for evac if necessary.

Thanks to the sixty-watt flashlight attached to the M90, in the murk of dusk he could discern his immediate surroundings. His naturally keen eyesight was a plus, allowing him to catch even the slightest of movement out of his indirect peripherals.

And amid the darkness which enveloped the UNSC mobile camp other sources of light found their way of illuminating the milieu. John caught misshapen glimpses of Marines' aghast faces in the intermittent bursts of gunfire, muzzle flashes giving a whole new light to the darkling.

"Get to it, Marines," John said in his deep voice.

A series of gunshots streamed past him on his right, and there a few meters ahead he saw a Covenant body shield shimmer. The blue-armored Elite roared agitatedly, ducking from the next volley of Battle Rifle fire and using his own Type-25. The directed energy weapon jerked in his hand from the recoil, and he battered the throng of Marines behind John with sweltering plasma. John raised the M90 and took three long paces forward, driving the shotgun's muzzle into the unfocused Elite. The blow sent the Covenant officer staggering backwards, disorientated but still in possession of the lustrous plasma rifle. John was not intending on leaving it there, however, and quickly drew his M90 in position to pull the trigger. The shotgun bucked in his gauntlets and an 8-gauge buckshot shell tore a messy hole through the Elite's stomach. Violet blood splashed the grassy earth and the front half of the M90, a tint John admired as a glorious souvenir.

But when he turned around and saw three of his Marine recruits lying supine with plasma burns branding their torsos, the others shivering in the frigidity of the evening despite the warmth of lead and plasma in the air, John felt fruitless. Nonetheless, he'd continue to save these Marines—and all those currently in need of help.

"Aim for the head, and don't let up," John said. "That's my only advice. Keep distance, their talons hurt."

This was more like it; John-117 spoke in broken sentences with simplistic jargon but broad meanings. Yet it wasn't quite alright; John favored being in the midst of battle, slaughtering the Covenant and giving humanity hope. It was his thing; he knew that he wouldn't be able to defeat the Covenant alone; every man and woman in the UNSC Marine Corps made just enough difference. And he'd be damned if he didn't give these novices a chance at that.

"Follow me," he added, hunkering low and passing over the Elite's body.

He sought after the nearest tent, whose tan fabric was lit up from the inside by long sequences of gunfire and plasma bursts. Here there would be, he hoped, the majority of the others at this camp; Sergeant Brian Cummings, this base's lead commander, should be inside that tent. Or at least so John hoped he remained alive.

This notion induced haste in his legs, bringing him to half his maximum speed. He pumped the shotgun thrice en route to the tent, taking down a wobbling Grunt with a Needler, an Elite under fire from those following him, and a Jackal whose shield was already depleted. It seemed that the whole Covenant conglomerate were here, except for Hunters. And John did not believe there were Hunters near, didn't as much as he hoped there weren't; if there were, despite John's persevering optimism and confidence, he figured they'd already be dead. Including him, even. They were all caught off-guard, that's for sure; he should have been more attentive, but it was true that the coup worked for the Covenant—a nighttime attack with cloaked Elites and a horde of Grunts and Jackals?

They made a mistake, though.

The Covenant probably had not assumed the Demon was located at this measly camp.

John approached the flapping entrance of the tent, which was splattered with blood, with the shotgun shouldered and his eyes attentive. He only hoped his remaining Marines were doing just the same—vigilant attention with weapons carried at a preparatory state.

Having decreased his speed upon entrance to the tent, whose sheets were tattered with both human and Covenant blood, John passed through the threshold slowly and quietly…to see a red-armored Elite handling Sgt. Cummings. The Elite, standing eight-and-a-half feet tall, easily dwarfed any human and towered above even the Master Chief by at least twelve inches; but here the bipedal creature held the Sergeant up by his throat, clawed fingers grasping his neck without lethality but with ferocity.

"You humans think you're so strong, so _arrogant_ in your safekeeping," the Elite spoke in clear English, though it was drowned by Covenant growling natural in its alien tongue. "But we _will_ find Earth…you are just delaying our finding it; we _will_ ascertain Earth, and we _will_ demolish it! You are just prolonging your race's suffering and—"

The Elite halted mid-sentence at the sound of a sliding stock. John pumped the shotgun and pressed the wide-bore muzzle squarely to the Elite's back. He pulled the trigger and the Elite fell forward, releasing Cummings as its entrails piled onto the floor. The creature fell upon its own viscera, shuddering and bleeding out the mouth before going stiff in the wake of death.

"I thought he'd never shut up," John said, cocking the shotgun and slinging it to rest on his shoulder.

"Thank you, Chief," Cummings replied with an unstable grin. He got to his feet, dusted himself off, and looked up at the Spartan. "I wasn't about to tell him where—"

"I know, Sir," John nodded. "I've got…forty-seven of our recruits here. We need to salvage our ammunition and what Marines we have left, then leave. This spot is obviously not safe."

"Absolutely, Chief," Cummings said, turning around and going to a Marine corpse. The man lay sprawled out on the floor, in a pool of his own blood. Cummings stooped to retrieve an M6G pistol and two spare magazines the Marine had kept. Pocketing them as he stood, the jungle green-clad Marine commander returned to face the Master Chief and his rallied recruits.

Cummings counted the Marines who were huddled tightly behind the Chief just in front of the entrance. He wouldn't mention to the Chief that there were only in fact thirty-nine of the Marines remaining, wouldn't mention to him that he may have let his guard down on their part and allowed more to die. No, Sgt. Cummings thought better of it, and at this cogitation turned back around and retrieved something else from the dead Marine's cadaver.

Dog tags. He pocketed these, too, and saw several of the recruits begin to do the same with other Marines' corpses that littered the tent's interior. They also policed these bodies for extra ammunition and other weapons, equipping it all for themselves, as good soldiers do. The Chief, however, just stood there, awaiting orders. Although the Master Chief has a higher ranking than most battlefield commanders—including Sergeant Cummings, here—he usually is not the one giving orders. Nor does he often take orders, but suggestions.

"From what I hear, most of the battle has died down," Cummings said in a melancholic manner. "Literally, I'm afraid…before we leave, search all the dead for ID and surplus ammunition. We will take the Scorpion on our leave, head nine clicks east for the nearest mobile base."

John nodded, saying "Yes, Sir," then turned and left the tent. The remaining mass of rookies parted like Moses' Red Sea to grant leeway for the Chief. Then they followed him, heeding Sgt. Cummings with a meticulously respectful eye…and then they were back in the murk.

Sergeant Cummings trailed the forty recruits and the Master Chief after assessing for the final time his loss of men in this tent. All the blood, the stench of lead and plasma in the atmosphere…he wanted to leave it, but he wanted to stay just the same.

Ultimately, he exited with head hung low and fingers gripping tightly the M6G.

It took the thirty-nine Marines, John, and Sergeant Cummings less than five minutes to search the dead bodies for ammunition and dog tags. They found more tags than ammunition, because most of the men and women had been sleeping or fooling around to have seized weapons for the surprise assault.

John's personal task was to assess not only the damage they took, but the damage they dealt. He meticulously but nimbly counted each Marine and Covenant corpse until he was able to correctly summarize the coup's results.

While the recruits gathered survivors, John reported to Cummings at the edge of the Scorpion tank.

"It was a small but mighty force, Sergeant," John said, glancing left-and-right. "Seven Elites and nine Grunts, plus three Jackals. We lost…twenty-eight men, total. There are four survivors; two wounded to point of the inability to walk. The others are perfectly intact."

"The Elites almost outnumbered the Grunts…" Cummings muttered. He shook his head, and scratched his chin in rumination. "Chief, did you establish what ranks the Elites belonged to?"

"Four of the Elites were Special-Ops, sir, with cloaking devices."

"Hence the surprise," Cummings murmured.

"Two were low-ranking field officers, Minors, and the last was an Elite Major—the one in your tent. All Grunts were basic subordinates, no Fuel Rod Cannons found just plasma pistols and rifles, and some Needlers."

"Hm…"

"Sir?"

"Why would the Covenant bombard a small mobile base such as this, and with their preeminent troops?"

"But they failed, Sergeant," John prompted.

"That they did, Chief," Cummings said under his breath, giving the Spartan a second glance. "That they did…"

"Shall we?" John asked, hopping unto the Scorpion, boots scuffing titanium armor plating. He stood over the piloting bay and unlatched the hatch. It popped open with a metallic _clang_ and he squatted just over it.

Cummings chuckled to himself, shaking his head.

"You're not very spacious, Chief," he said. "And I'm not a midget."

John hadn't thought about that; two people can sit in the M808 Scorpion MBT's cockpit, but with a Spartan in it only a child would be able to fit comfortably. And Cummings, at six feet and 195 pounds, is not the best match.

"Apologies, Sir," John said, "would you like to, and I'll take the Warthog?"

After a moment of consideration, Cummings saw no better option than accord.

"You _are_ a better driver than I, Chief," Cummings admitted. "So, if you don't mind—"

"I don't," John replied, hopping down from the tank. His booted feet slammed into the dirt and he went stiff to gaze down at the Sergeant.

"Very well," Cummings said, climbing aboard the tank. "I _will_, however, need an operator for the machinegun, Chief. Another should fit fine in the cockpit with myself."

"Yes, Sir," John nodded, turning and jogging off to meet with the group of Marines.

"Master Chief, are we leaving?" one of the unharmed survivors asked, saluting.

"Yes," John said. "Sergeant Cummings needs a gunner for the Scorpion, and I need a passenger and my own gunner for the Warthog. It seems, too, that the Covenant took a couple Ghosts here, but are parked in the distance.

"Volunteers?"

Though many of the recruits wanted to drive a Ghost or man the Scorpion HMG, in the end it was much wiser for the Chief to select either of the survivors. He told a few of the recruits to help the two injured soldiers onto each Ghost—there were two of them, and they did not require footing to operate, just the thumbs for the manual throttles. He subsequently chose the two intact survivors to man the Scorpion coaxial gun and the M41 LAAG mounted at the rear of the Warthog. Figuring he could manage to fit two others on the Warthog with him and the gunner, John picked them from the recruits to sit in the passenger's seat and the other to ride astern directly behind the gunner. That left thirty-six remaining without any transportation. The only thing left to do was hitch a ride on the Scorpion. The multitude of Marines that formerly composited the whole camp here consisted of nearly a hundred. They had the possession of two other Warthogs, both of which the Chief found to be sabotaged by the Covenant.

"If we match the maximum limit," John had told the batch of lingering Marines, "three of you can sit on each track pod on the Scorpion. That's only twelve, though. Then there can be two on the back, up to four sitting elsewhere on it, and those left will walk. Is there anybody here—"

"Nobody needs to not walk," Sergeant Cummings had snapped as he approached behind John from the tank. He placed his hand up on the Spartan's left shoulder and said, "Chief, do what you need to do to fit as many men on the vehicles we've got. We won't be racing, and even if in combat the Scorpion's sluggish so walking shouldn't be an issue. Understood, Marines?"

"Yes, Sir!" they all saluted.

"Good, then get to it."

Ultimately it worked out just as John had spoke of, with a dozen walking along each side of the Scorpion. The remaining six walked beside the steady-going Warthog, three on either side. And, lastly, the other two Marines whose legs were shot-up piloted the whirring Ghosts in a line behind the tank.

John drove the 4x4 vehicle with a stable foot on the accelerator, but kept it slow. Behind him lagged the Scorpion. Despite being a 66-ton battle tank, the Scorpion rolled with a more manageable speed than most Earthbound vehicles of its ilk, and could traverse uneven terrain adroitly due to four individual track segments. As for the Warthog, or more formally the M12 LRV, as a light reconnaissance vehicle it has the ability to reach speeds of fifty to sixty miles-per-hour and can nimbly steer with superior traction. Its T-top roof panels provide passengers with something hang onto during turbulence and the convertible design makes boarding and exiting very easy.

"How far?" one of the Marines wouldn't stop asking.

John rolled his eyes, invisibly behind the helmet's visor, and sighed audibly.

"Six clicks," he said after calculating the approximate distance. "And stop asking…I will notify everyone once we're reached a kilometer's distance; from thereon radio contact should be available."

"Radio contact?" one of the other Marines, walking along John's side of the Warthog, asked curiously. "We have an intact radio? Where? Why don't we just call in right—"

"No," the gunner said, letting the Chief have a rest with words. "We don't have any radios; neither the Scorpion nor the Warthog come standard with radios, but we _do_ have an IB planted in the engine of both…"

"_IB_?"

"Indication Beacon," the Marine said. "A tiny device integrated in all UNSC vehicles, allowing it to be easily detected by friendly radars and thus establish radio communication with any nearby COM Links."

"But…we don't got any COM Links, do we?"

"Yeah, actually," he said, nodding toward the Chief, "we do."

"But I don't have the ability to make calls, only receive," John told the recruit.

"Ugh!" the Marine complained, throwing up his hands, "my legs are _killin__'_ me!"

After a few seconds of ensuing silence, save the constant whine of the Warthog's V8, John looked over at the apparently exhausted soldier and figured 'why not.'

"Marine, what's your name?" he asked.

"Lenny Bartman," he replied. He looked like a Lenny, whatever that may mean. He was very young, as all the recruits were, having a pallid face and scraggly hair. His eyes were filled with both the dreams and naïveté of youth. "Sir…"

"I'm going about ten miles-an-hour, Bartman," John said. He leaned back in his seat, a single hand gripping the zenith of the steering wheel. "And I know you're all walking fast, for the past few miles."

John turned his head and whistled, catching the nearest walking Marine on the passenger's side. He then spoke loudly, as to catch all of their attention.

"Don't take your time, now, but if you can manage it without falling—go on 'n' hop onto the hood. It could hold two of you—if you're not obese."

"We're _Marines_, Chief," Bartman said with a smirk, jogging up and climbing onto the hood. Once on, he realized it wouldn't be too comfortable due to the steady heat beneath his rump under the hood. Nonetheless, it was better than walking the remaining six kilometers. Concurrently came the other on the passenger's side, climbing up along Bartman.

The other four walkers near the Warthog sighed in exasperation. One of them tried to climb onto the rear side of the vehicle, and managed to successfully—now sitting there with legs dangling over the rear left fender. The man on the right side got to it and suddenly the Warthog hung low on its four wheels and lightweight chassis.

"Okay, that's enough," John snapped. "If we get any lower, we'll be scraping the ground."

"Sorry, Sir," one of the men said, and hopped off. Then off came the other, on the rear, but both Bartman and his comrade remained on the hood, relaxing.

"What's wrong with this thing?" the Marine in the passenger seat exclaimed. "It's whining like a Banshee!"

"The Warthog's fine—" John began to say, then realized the real-time irony to the soldier's simile. Ahead by about a hundred yards and quickly enclosing, soaring through the midnight sky, was a Covenant aircraft. The Banshee, an appellation perfectly apt for the sound it made during flight, screeched overhead. Its sheer presence arose a clamor from the Marines, but as it passed by and vanished in the distance to their six, everyone supposed it hadn't seen them.

John knew better than to assume, especially that.

"Everybody get _down_!" John shouted, as the Banshee gave the human platoon a wide berth from its airborne trajectory. Its return was associated with lustrous blasts from the twin plasma cannons at the head of its fuselage, raining down cerulean globules of directed energy upon the mobile targets. Plasma seared across the Scorpion's titanium surface, doing minor damage but killing a Marine in its path. The stream of consistent plasma fire continued along the single-file line of Marines, cutting up the sides of the Warthog and killing one of the men who'd just hopped off the back.

John didn't have time to feel the shame for that one, only regret for not acting immediately.

"Bartman!" John spat, jumping out of the Warthog's driver seat. "Take the wheel, and give me your pistol!"

Bartman was on the move, climbing into the moving Warthog as it decelerated, handing the Master Chief his M6G simultaneously. The Banshee was on its way back, to make a second strafing run. Everyone that had a weapon that wasn't a Needler or shotgun fired up at the Banshee. It was almost pitch black, but the headlamps on the Warthog gave some supplementary luminance while the Banshee's wingtips glowed a mauve beacon.

Although the Banshee received a hail of inaccurate gunfire from the more inexperienced Marines down below, its armor held tough and its pilot thumbed down the firing triggers. Cerulean plasma cut across the Warthog just as the human gunner thumbed back his own triggers. As the Banshee swept over the sluggish Warthog, plasma having sliced through its T-top and injuring its passenger, the gunner swung the M41 LAAG and crouched to get better aim. A stream of 7.62mm armor-piercing bullets spat forth from the three-barreled machinegun in an arcing trajectory while the Banshee soared away. Though not a rookie, the gunner wasn't paramount. His aim was slow to track the flying Banshee, but he did manage to get in at least half a dozen well-placed shots, creating a visible spark from the tail of the aircraft.

As it vanished into the darkness beyond, silence began to settle and then a sniper rifle sounded. Everyone looked around until their eyes met a recruit who'd just put in one last shot for the moment.

He shrugged.

"It's coming back, Chief!" somebody yelled, as the nails-on-blackboard sound returned.

"No," John said, barely loud enough for his nigh comrades to hear, "it's a different one."

This Banshee came in from the rear, and as John saw the Scorpion rotate its barrel to attempt a shot, a green chunk of plasma spat from underneath. It was from the Banshee's belly-mounted fuel rod cannon, an extremely lethal blast of plasma acting as the Covenant's equivalent to an SSM rocket. It was on, as always, a slow trajectory but arrived at its target just the same—one of the Ghosts. It struck the injured Marine who was driving it headlong, and John supposed he never even felt a thing; the hovercraft went up in a plume of blue-white flame, surrounded by an emerald mist from the plasmatic blast. The demolished remnants of the salvaged Ghost flipped airborne, and began to come down upon the other when the Banshee struck it with a volley of plasma fire. The directed energy cannons mounted on the nose of the Banshee lit up as they spat plasma and shredded the Ghost within seconds before it passed over.

As it did so, the other Banshee—assuming it was the same as earlier—arrived from the convoy's left side. Apparently this Banshee's fuel rod cannon was depleted, or else it would have used it by now. But instead it strafed the Warthog a second time with its plasma cannons, this time searing right through the vehicle's surface steel and abrading its underlying chassis. In this same instant John shot at the Banshee through the murk with the borrowed M6G, gazing through the scope for the best hit. Concurrently, however, a streak of plasma passed over the arms of the Warthog's gunner, severing them at the elbows. In a spray of blood the Marine collapsed unto his back, fingers still squeezing at the triggers, the dead weight of his detached arms pulling the LAAG to point its three conjoined barrels skyward. Coincidentally, a torrent of bullets from the machinegun scored the substructure of the Banshee, their armor-piercing capability dealing the necessary damage.

The Elite pilot, who operated the Banshee in a headlong position within the fuselage-embodied cockpit, received nine 7.62mm AP rounds to his underside. A few of the heavy-caliber bullets easily deactivated his body shielding, and those that followed punctured his flesh effortlessly. As his blood spurt over the controls and his last breath escaped his maw, the Elite lost control over the Banshee.

The other Banshee watched as its comrade plummeted nose-first into the earthen floor about thirty yards away, one wing snapping in severance whilst a squall of sparks arose in the gloom. It skidded along about ten meters before exploding in a billow of cerulean flame.

This sight caught the pilot off-guard as he steered his Banshee blindly to the left, trigger-fingers loosened from the controls.

The LAAG gunner was en route to a painful death via an excessive loss of blood, but his fellow Marines did their best to help him. They tore off pieces of their uniforms to utilize the cloth as tourniquets while another removed the severed arms from the machinegun to replace them with his own.

In the meantime, John shifted his feet to aim for the temporarily disoriented Banshee, crouched to one knee, and emptied the pistol's clip. At the same time all others reloaded, their convoy now halted. But John's single M6G pistol did not achieve the effects he'd desired, leaving the Banshee with a few seconds to get back on track—

The earth shook with a vociferous _boom_ and a gossamer trail zipped across the night sky just above the convoy. It angled up diagonally and its first and only contact was the airborne Banshee.

John wouldn't give Sgt. Cummings in the tank a thumbs-up until he finished watching the Banshee fall in ruins. The midair explosion illumined the direct vicinity as the Covenant aircraft ceased flying and began falling. The blast was radiant in a mixture of amber and blue flame.

'Beautiful' was the right term in such triumphant times as these.

The instant the obliterated Banshee hit the ground in a crackling heap of shrapnel, John turned to gaze at the Scorpion. Smoke, just barely visible in the midnight murk, rose up from the thick muzzle of the Scorpion's long barrel.

But only a few Marines hooted in victory.

John turned his head to catch a horrid sight of many Marines trying to heal the severely injured gunner. He took a few paces over to the back of the Warthog, grabbing the M90 shotgun from the cab before reaching it. He blindly returned the empty M6G to Bartman—who he figured would have ammunition for a reload—and halted at the rear of the vehicle. Raising the shotgun, he activated the flashlight and shone an elucidating beam on the scene.

The gunner who had been operating the light anti-aircraft gun had both arms messily cleaved at the elbows. Blood continued to flow through the wads of cloth which the Marines had stuck to the sanguine stubs, the makeshift tourniquets doing little help. The Marine himself, his face pallid with fear and agony, shuddered a few times in panic of death. The panic was also, of course, aroused by extreme pain. His vibratory manner did not cease until about a minute later, when his rapid breaths stopped short. His body jolted once more in the arms of the recruits in the back of the Warthog, then went still.

A Marine held his hung low, and closed his dead comrade's eyelids with his fingers.

Whether or not the gunner had died from panicked fright or excessive bleeding was extraneous; he died miserably, and despite all the aid of his newfound comrades. With him in this second coup of the night had fallen the pair of Ghost-driving Marines, another two in the Warthog, one on the tank, and the last on-foot.

Casualties are always heartfelt by the soldiers, and especially by those in more authoritative roles—like Cummings and John—because they usually feel the blame is on them.

John noticed that the rotary emplacement, or head, of the tank swiveled—its barrel like a finger pointing to anything that may be of danger. It was on the lookout for anymore Banshees, or whatever else that may be hostile. But Sgt. Cummings was not manning the cannon, John saw, because Cummings was walking towards the Chief now. John figured the other Marine was in the cockpit, hoping to be good at what he's doing, knowing that he is controlling the single most powerful weapon on the UNSC arsenal.

Other than the Master Chief, that is.

"Sir…" John began, glancing at the corpse of the gunner then back at Cummings.

"His body will be brought with us," the Sergeant said monotonously. "Those men that perished in the two Ghosts will be remembered, the best we humans can do. The others that have died…"

"There's a body to your left, Sir, and one lying on the Warthog. Both dead; I'll get their tags…do you want to—"

"Carry only what the Warthog can manage," Cummings said plainly. "We will hit maximum speed, or at least I will in the Scorpion. You take my six with the 'Hog and have a man on that gun to cover our ass. Maintain high speed, just don't lag or bump into my rear. Stop me with a gunshot if you've obtained contact with anyone UNSC."

"Understood."

"Good," Cummings said with a thwarted sigh, turning to head back to the tank.

And so John did just that. The haste which fueled his legs was not alone as his fellow subordinate Marines obeyed Cummings to the letter. They would no longer be denoted as 'measly rookies' because they'd seen their fair share of battle—their fair share of hell. And they weren't going back; no, they were just now climbing to the surface.

Chapter Three

Their convoy had been reduced from an original forty-five to a current thirty-nine.

And not only had they lost manpower but vehicular strength, too. The two stolen Ghosts were destroyed and the Warthog's rear suspension was damaged due to an onslaught of smoldering plasma from one of the Banshees. But the 4x4 UNSC jeep carried on, trailing the Scorpion tank that maxed 35-mph over smooth terrain. Driving the Warthog, however, wasn't John; Bartman drove it and drove it well, being his first time. Instead John manned the turret, knowing factually that he'd be able to operate it far better than any of these Marines. Plus, if he obtained contact with anybody over his integral COM Link he wouldn't have to worry about paying attention to the driving—although it was imperative he continue to heed his inconsistent surroundings.

This radio contact arrived as they neared the kilometer radius from where Sergeant Major Johnson's mobile camp should be located.

_"UMB Charlie-19, this is UMB Charlie-19, over."_

John bolted upright, standing on the LAAG platform of the moving Warthog. He put a hand to the ear of his helmet, the other still cinching the gun.

"This is SPARTAN-117," John responded. The Warthog passenger shifted his weight to gaze up at the Master Chief, having heard him speak. "I repeat, this is SPARTAN-117, en route to your base. We're survivors of UMB Gamma-12. Over."

_"We read you, Master Chief,"_ the voice replied. It was a female tone with a mechanical tint, but John could discern it as human. It was the crackling in the COM Link that masked it as robotic. _"What is your status? __Over."_

"Thirty-nine including Sergeant Cummings and I," John said, glancing around. The light of dawn was slowly peeking up from the mountainous horizon. "Carrying three dead; tank lightly damaged and Warthog chassis impaired, both from previous Banshee attack. No wounded. Over."

There was a short pause, then. At the same time Bartman loosened his foot on the accelerator, the Warthog slowing down. He glimpsed the Spartan standing behind him with a hand to his ear. Bartman knew they had reached the necessary distance to obtain radio contact.

_"We're sending a Warthog over for extra carriage. Continue your route, we have you on radar. __Over and out."_

The COM Link went dead.

John returned his hand to the turret and smiled what smile he could manage.

He then crouched low and fired four shots skyward. The reports were loud and low, while four brass casings spat out from the breech and jingled to the floor of the pivotal platform.

Seconds later the Scorpion rolled to a stop, lurching on its tracks. The hatch flipped open and out popped Cummings like a groundhog out of its hole. His eyes targeted the Spartan and they alone asked the question.

John wouldn't yell, he wouldn't get up to tell the Sergeant exactly what was going on, he just nodded and signaled forward, then a forefinger went up. Cummings nodded in affirmation and ducked back down into the cockpit. The Scorpion started up again and Bartman drove the Warthog on.

"What'd they say?" the passenger asked. Obviously he didn't comprehend the hand signals.

"We're about a kilometer away," John answered, "and they'll send a Warthog to help carry our dead and facilitate the itinerary."

"Oh," the Marine said, nodding to himself and sitting back in the seat. "Cool."

It wasn't but three minutes later that the Warthog arrived from UNSC Mobile Base Charlie, sector 19. But as it sped into visibility of the convoy, some of the recruits were disappointed. Those that didn't know what John had told Bartman and his comrade were figuring they'd send either a Pelican by-air or at least a Scorpion; or, at the very least, an M12 LRV. Instead, it was an M831 TT. This Warthog variant was the same basic model as the LRV except with the LAAG turret removed and replaced by a basket-like rear able to seat four additional people.

More apt for the situation at hand, but not as imposing as the models with a rear-mounted turret. Nonetheless, the cheering arose before too long, and didn't cease when the driver e-braked the Warthog into a halting drift. Dirt and dust was kicked-up in a cloud of muck, then slowly settled while the convoy came to a stop.

John hopped off from the LAAG platform and then ambled over to the arrived Warthog.

Its driver, a female of about 5'8" with short ruddy hair, climbed out of the vehicle and stood to salute the approaching Master Chief. Behind the Spartan, she saw, approached also Sergeant Cummings.

"Sergeant Brian Cummings," he said, saluting once he arrived alongside the Chief.

"Corporal Camille Hanes," she replied, dropping the salute. "I came with message that you were attacked last night and this was your convoy of survivors…?"

Cummings nodded. "Yes, that's us. We're carrying all the dead we could manage; the tank's fine, but the 'Hog has structural damage."

"Understood, Sir," she said, pointing to the Warthog which sat behind her. The engine was still running, humming instead of whining at its low-gear state. John didn't know much of those models, because they're more for personnel carriage and the movement of supplies than battle-worthy, but he figured because of the need for speed when pervading an enemy full of troops but with no gun that the engine is probably mightier than the LRV.

"This can seat two up front, three if need be, and four in the back. I'll take the dead weight first, and if more room is available then it'll hold as much as possible."

"Thank you, Corporal Hanes," Cummings said, simpering the best he could. "So you came from UMB Charlie-19, yes?"

She nodded.

"And they sent just you?" John asked monotonously.

"Yes, Sir," she said, "I'm best with the 'Hog, believe it or not. Besides, they're all preparing to move-out, ASAP, Sir."

"Why?" Cummings said, eyes squinted, mind working curiously.

"We've intercepted Covenant communications regarding the sweeping of sectors 10 through 20. That's the both of us, Sir. They spoke of Banshee assailants and Special-Ops Elites to eliminate all mobile bases. They're coming through our backyard, Sergeant, to cut off our supplies and hamstring us."

It was all very clever on the Covenant's part, which was one unfortunate thing that most UNSC commanders abhorred—their strategic intellect. Although some of their subspecies, such as the Grunts and Hunters are typically doltish, it is the Prophets and Elites who are at the reins of the Covenant.

And therein lies ardent intelligence, zealous determination, and merciless grit.

"When is the base planning to relocate?" Cummings asked.

"We're not, really," Hanes replied. She felt thirty-some eyes on her from the Convoy, but continued unperturbed. "Because most Pelicans are busy at the hangars, preparing lift-off and carriage into space—"

"They're taking the fight off the planet?"

"The major airborne forces are, yes. In hopes of repelling imminent onslaughts of the Covenant fleets. But we, infantry, are being picked-up by some Hornets at hours, to be relocated in the city. They're sending more than a dozen Hornets, and we've been told to take all that remain in these sectors."

"Then…let's go," Cummings said, almost sighed.

"Why would they let someone like _you_ join the Marines? So dainty," one of the recruits spoke softly to Hanes. She gave a false smile in return, even as another Marine said: "Wouldn't wanna get any blood on that pretty face."

As she helped the Marines unload their dead comrades from the LRV, Hanes replied to the last statement with: "And the same to you—so shut it."

While a few of the recruits jeered at the man for the rejoinder she shot him with, others simply widened their eyes and shook their heads in a tsk-tsk manner.

In the meantime, John and Cummings stood aside from the infantry with solemn talk between them.

"Do you approve of this?" John asked.

"Of what?"

"The relocation of infantry," John said, "and bringing the airborne fight to space…?"

"Not quite, Master Chief," Cummings replied, his response as hazy as his countenance. "I…I have a sister whose specialty is flying, you see, Pelicans. And so she'll be up and…while I _do_ have all the confidence in the world in her as a pilot, I just don't see the chances. I mean—an entire fleet of Covenant, and seems like with every passing day there arrives a dozen more."

"We _will_ win this fight," John said simply.

"Oh, I wish I was as optimistic as you, Chief, but the reality is that I'm old…or _getting_ old, whichever way you decide to put it…and although they say the old are wise, my wisdom is worth nothing more than cynicism and dou—"

"_Sir_," John blurted, but in his low voice. He seized Cumming's shoulder, shaking him gently but hard enough. Cummings dropped his head, and stopped talking. He realized, then, too, that a few eyes were on him. Almost half a dozen. But he wasn't going to tell them off, the Marines, it wasn't about that anymore.

They needed to get on the move, though.

"My apologies, Master Chief," Cummings said, producing a weak smile. "My pessimism aside, I will see through to it that—"

"Sir, we need to get moving," John interrupted. "Time's not on our side, and neither are the Covenant."

"Right," Cummings sighed, turning and ambling back to the Scorpion. "Right…"

"I'll continue with the Warthog turret," John said, taking naturally big steps back to the LRV. "We'll keep on with the convoy's arrangement…"

"We'll take point," Hanes insisted, four recruits boarding the M831 TT near her. The three cadavers lay stacked in the passenger's seat, leaving the rear vacant. Corporal Hanes didn't seem to mind the men piling into the 'Hog, or at least she hadn't noticed them yet.

"But with the five-liter V8," she added, "and the lack of artillery defenses, would you approve of us speeding ahead? Sergeant? We'd try 'n' hit maximum speed, though it gets bumpier as we near the base. And if we arrive before y'all show-up, I'll be sure to tell them you're on your way. The Hornets will be standing-by, and rearmament may be available before leave…"

"Of course," Cummings finally said, nodding. He raised a hand to salute, and she returned it. A couple of the Marines who stumbled onboard the Warthog saluted, too, clumsy but steady enough. Cummings, turning, saw the Master Chief embark the Warthog's LAAG platform. As he climbed back onto the Scorpion, hatch held open by the last of the non-recruit Marines, Cummings called to the Spartan: "You watch my six, now, y'hear? And I'll keep a watchful eye on our noon. Be seein' you again real soon, Chief."

All John did in response was salute. That was all that the Sergeant's words warranted.

And then Cummings vanished down into the cockpit of the tank, his subordinate comrade following just after him to man the coaxial gun. Once the Scorpion got back on the move again, its rearward diesel roaring to life, the M831 TT growled to life and Bartman restarted the LRV.

Corporal Hanes veered the Troop Transport out in front of the Scorpion, which was slowly gaining speed. But the TT snarled up to fourth gear already, puffing exhaust steam from its tailpipes as fuel burned and torque met the wheels. The hilly terrain Hanes had spoken of was antecedently beginning, seen by the few Marines hitching rides on the Scorpion's track pods from the soft suspension bouncing of the TT. Despite the rugged terrain, however, the off-road Warthog met its match and maintained control; either that or Hanes was truly elite in driving.

Or both.

Bartman, on the other hand, wasn't a wheelman—let alone a connoisseur behind the controls of a 4x4 military vehicle. One that he's never driven before, but fortunately has had some experience with civilian trucks back in the city. Of all people, too, it was John who was most comfortable. Standing up in that heavy MJOLNIR suit under the rising sun would make most pour sweat, but John's enhanced physicality delayed the perspiring process in the salvaging of electrolytes and the maintenance of vigor. Yet his mind was exhausted from the past events, while his comfort level was high: he stood erect, feet planted firmly onto the pivotal platform and hands gripping the gun; the bumps in the earth which affected the smoothness of the ride did not distress him at all.

Meanwhile, Bartman and the two men sharing the passenger's seat with the medial console received discomfort in their lower-bodies.

The sun was beginning to peek over the lateral of the horizon in the distance, over a row of grassy mountains. Its orange semi-circle of radiance glowed brilliantly in the purplish haze of dawn, setting the scene for a beautiful environmental tableau.

_It'll be light soon,_ John thought. He liked fighting in sunlit areas much more than dark ones, not only because he can discern his enemies well but because he can manipulate it. In the murk, when some Elites have the ability to become invisible with their bodily cloaking technology, the backdrop of deep shadows do nothing for his eyes. However, in the light John can distinguish distortions in the background if the transparent Elite walks before a tree, bush, or fellow Covenant; this provides John with superiority on the battlefield against what are considered to be one of the greatest combative threats.

Other advantageous reasons for fighting in luminosity include the easiness of motion without the caution of bumping into something, the ability to see more clearly without the sole beam of a flashlight, and the confirmation of a killed enemy. The abilities for John to aim better, reload more efficiently, and use cover to maximum efficacy are all associated with well-lit battlegrounds and thus relay to his own utmost potential.

"Drop ahead!" somebody wailed. It was Corporal Hanes. Her voice rose over the concoction of big-block engines rumbling, tires scratching dirt, and a zephyr which swept the faces of the Marines.

At her note everyone braced for possible landing impact, because nobody slowed down.

John leaned to the side, peering over the 'shoulder' of the Scorpion to see the Warthog TT vanish over a descending inclination. The tank followed thereafter, with a long ten-second gap between it and Hanes's vehicle.

"Slow down," John told Bartman as the tank reached the downhill slope's crest. "Don't wanna get a fender-bender with the tank."

Bartman acknowledged this without further ado, but was a good driver at not stomping brakes. Nor did he ever go anywhere near the emergency-brake handle, yet instead his hands remained gripping the wheel while the Warthog's front wheels hit the crest. The front suspension bounced as the tires met a slight incline at the edge, sending it airborne. The vehicle's rear wheels never touched the crest and wouldn't touch the ground until about thirty feet down. The Warthog soared through the air in a narrow arc, plunging almost nose-first into the slope.

While Bartman panicked with a gasp and clenched teeth, eyes wide and fingers cinching the steering wheel, the Marine in the passenger's seat pointed skyward and hooted adolescently. John, on the other hand, actually braced for impact: he bent his knees just a touch and resituated his feet on the platform to gain the best angle for a rough landing.

When the LRV finally touched ground, its front two wheels struck the dirt instead of its bumper, saving the Warthog from what would truly be a rugged landing.

Not far down the hill rolled the MBT on its tracks, all pod-riding passengers still on their seats. Afterall, the tank hadn't gone far airborne—a mere ten feet at most. The instant its planar tracks came in contact with the coarse surface of the slope, it was all downhill. Literally, too. Its 66-ton weight bore down on it, causing the vehicle to roll steadily in descent.

The TT, on the other hand, had a currently crooked front bumper from _its_ rough landing, after jumping the crest at sixty miles-an-hour. None of the corpses had come loose of their seatbelt security, and neither had Hanes nor any of the Marines she had on the TT. They were a bit roughened-up, sure, but no harm done.

The M831 TT was the first one to hit the base, though, and at a gaining speed of nearly fifty miles-per-hour. This time the front wheels absorbed the impact of the abrupt planar ground level, sending it off in a lurch with speed gaining behind its wheels.

Ahead, now, sat a large compound. It was interlinked with tents made of resilient fabric and its posts were of similar composition. It looked more like a vast teepee than a military outpost, but outpost it is. Or _was_. In the distance, kicking up a whole smokescreen of sand and dirt, hovered a trio of Hornets.

Angular, thin, metallic fighter jets these aircraft were the basis of the UNSC air assault.

"There—" the LRV passenger said, half-standing and pointing. Just then the Scorpion ahead of them hit the base and bounced gently; the Warthog swiftly followed. The passenger retook his seat to keep himself from springing off.

"Ever fly a Hornet, Chief?" Bartman asked, glancing astern and up at the Spartan.

John, as honest and straightforward as he is, just shook his head.

As the last remaining Spartan on Reach—or at least that he knew of—John figured it was time he tried out everything there was to try. But there were only a few vehicles that he's yet to have the chance to operate, whereas all the weapons in the UNSC's arsenal—including a vast majority of Covenant armaments—he has used. Never has he flown, or let alone ridden, a Hornet. He's been a passenger more times than he could remember on a Pelican dropship, but he's never piloted one, let alone been in the cockpit. Whereas with a Phantom—a Covenant dropship—he's neither flown nor even ridden in one of all his life. Of course, nobody has—of all the salvaged Covenant weaponry and captured vehicles, never in the history of this war has any human willingly stepped inside a Phantom. Either you've been captured or you're in a body bag whence you enter.

But of all things, a Hornet…!? John knew this was his chance to fly one, or at least ride on one of its running-board platforms if nothing else.

By the time the LRV hit the bottom of the hill, the TT had reached the UNSC mobile base. It wasn't mobile anymore, of course, but surely it still had available MRE's and canteens. And for John, rearmament.

Once the LRV skidded to a halt just behind the stopped Scorpion, John leapt off of the platform, boots slamming to the ground and body going erect again. He met with Cummings before even Bartman was able to shutdown the engine.

"---


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

John began to say something when his keen hearing caught distant sounds. They were faint but he distinguished them as screams and gunfire.

"Chief, what's that?" somebody asked, under his breath but dynamic with uncertainty and fright. Everybody jumped to their feet, almost lethargically, and began groping at their sides but remembered they had yet to retrieve their weapons.

"There's fifty of you here and less than twenty weapons…grab what you can, I'll unlock the armaments cache," John said, voice heavy but composed. He left the table while the sounds increased in volume, sounds of humans screaming and UNSC gunfire in the blend of plasmatic shots and alien utterances. He referred to the UNSC weapons cache in the front of the tent, locked in a six-by-six foot metallic cage. It contained one shotgun, two ARs, three Battle Rifles, six M6G pistols, eight M9 grenades, two salvaged plasma rifles, a salvaged Carbine, and copious ammunition for each UNSC firearm.

"We're under attack!" somebody wailed, just outside the tent. The tent's opening gaped suddenly and a Marine with blood on his face limped in. Suddenly his chest opened up in a spray of gore smoldered by cerulean plasma.

The fifty recruits inside the tent rallied together at the back of the tent, while John—the Master Chief, SPARTAN-117—unlocked the weapons cache. He didn't bother fumbling with the keys and kicked-in the door, immediately reaching in for the nearest weapon. His fingers found the M90 shotgun, and then withdrew himself as the corpse fell forward flaccidly and an unseen figure entered just after it. A blue plasma rifle floated with it, and against the ivory tent with hanging battery-powered lights providing luminance, John could discern it as an Elite Spec-Op with cloaking camouflage activated.

He lunged forward at the invisible Elite, who was facing directly forward and in fact missed the Spartan to his right.

All 1,000 pounds of John-117 struck the unsuspecting Elite with tremendous force. Whence the Elite's back hit the earthen floor of the tent, the plasma rifle was knocked from unseen clawed fingers by John's wielded M90. He then, crouching over the fallen Elite, whom still blended transparently into the background, raised the shotgun for a second blow. This time John drove the polymer butt of the shotgun into what he presumed was the Elite's face, once then twice. Upon the first bludgeon, the Elite's camouflage shuddered into brief visibility; the second blow deactivated the cloak as the Elite's brain was bashed in now by John's third consecutive melee strike. He left the shogun's butt tainted in violet goop, which he didn't bother wiping off.

Standing, John glared down at the lifeless Elite, whose face was now twisted into a gruesome distortion of its original features. Eyes oozed some vile mauve liquid while its quadri-hinged mandibles were bent at awkward angles and salivated blood leaked from its maw. The Elite wore crimson armor which even now glimmered beneath the fluorescents.

"Lock and load, Marines," John said, still gazing down at his victim.

The fifty Marines huddled together, the majority of them still dazed with panic. The others gladly prepared themselves for battle; most of the men were empty-handed, however, having not yet approached the cache of weapons which now lay unguarded and open.

It took the recruits a few seconds, until John averted his eyes from the Elite corpse to his fellow Marines. And with that those unarmed dashed for the weapons cache, where they hastily equipped themselves accordingly; and even those armed with the weapons taken from the display table came to the cache in hopes of ammunition and more choices.

Meanwhile, gunfire and screams continued in the milieu, outside their tent and beyond.

"Now's not the time to choose reluctantly, Marines," John said. He planted his boot on the Elite's chest, and pressed down. Flesh gave way beneath fruitless armor. He brought the M90 shotgun to port-arms and cocked it, spitting an empty 8-gauge shell out the breech.

It looked as though the Master Chief had been carved in stone in that very glorious pose, as if it were a real-time statue.

The Marines took this into consideration—the Chief's words, that is—and hurried with their selections. In less than ten seconds all fifty Marines were equipped and prepared, although most mentally were not, for battle. It sounded like hell out there, out of this tent, where gunfire persisted and the screams of the dying were unremitting.

Every passing second that went by without John outside helping his falling comrades he felt worrisome and without purpose. But his current purpose was to lead these new soldiers into battle, whether or not they were psychologically ready.

"Stay together, trust the man beside you, and keep an alert eye," John said, stepping off from the dead Elite and facing the tent's flapping entrance. "It's dark out there, Marines, but not as dark as death. So stay strong."

Many of what John-117 said to his subordinate Marines were derived from his loyal but newfound comrade Sergeant Major Avery J. Johnson, whom he's yet to see since his first day in battle with the man a week earlier. From what John knew, Sgt. Johnson was currently located nine clicks away at an overtaken Covenant base which was seized at 0500 hours yesterday. Despite their relatively short times together, mainly in battle, John and Avery have shared a bond unlike any other Marines and the Master Chief. Thus John as borrowed some of Sgt. Johnson's more sympathetic remarks than his fierce but necessarily strict comments.

These words kept the Marines at bay of losing their minds in the mist of brutal onslaughts dealt by the enemy Covenant, although being their first time in combat the recruits remain in fear. Even the most tough, hardass novice Marines cannot bury the apprehension which lurks in the chasms of their minds…

"Let's move out, Marines," John snapped, activating the flashlight fixed to the M90 and hunkering as he exited the tent. "To the tents!"

John's only strategy was to go where help was needed, kill as many Covenant as possible and prepare for evac if necessary.

Thanks to the sixty-watt flashlight attached to the M90, in the murk of dusk he could discern his immediate surroundings. His naturally keen eyesight was a plus, allowing him to catch even the slightest of movement out of his indirect peripherals.

And amid the darkness which enveloped the UNSC mobile camp other sources of light found their way of illuminating the milieu. John caught misshapen glimpses of Marines' aghast faces in the intermittent bursts of gunfire, muzzle flashes giving a whole new light to the darkling.

"Get to it, Marines," John said in his deep voice.

A series of gunshots streamed past him on his right, and there a few meters ahead he saw a Covenant body shield shimmer. The blue-armored Elite roared agitatedly, ducking from the next volley of Battle Rifle fire and using his own Type-25. The directed energy weapon jerked in his hand from the recoil, and he battered the throng of Marines behind John with sweltering plasma. John raised the M90 and took three long paces forward, driving the shotgun's muzzle into the unfocused Elite. The blow sent the Covenant officer staggering backwards, disorientated but still in possession of the lustrous plasma rifle. John was not intending on leaving it there, however, and quickly drew his M90 in position to pull the trigger. The shotgun bucked in his gauntlets and an 8-gauge buckshot shell tore a messy hole through the Elite's stomach. Violet blood splashed the grassy earth and the front half of the M90, a tint John admired as a glorious souvenir.

But when he turned around and saw three of his Marine recruits lying supine with plasma burns branding their torsos, the others shivering in the frigidity of the evening despite the warmth of lead and plasma in the air, John felt fruitless. Nonetheless, he'd continue to save these Marines—and all those currently in need of help.

"Aim for the head, and don't let up," John said. "That's my only advice. Keep distance, their talons hurt."

This was more like it; John-117 spoke in broken sentences with simplistic jargon but broad meanings. Yet it wasn't quite alright; John favored being in the midst of battle, slaughtering the Covenant and giving humanity hope. It was his thing; he knew that he wouldn't be able to defeat the Covenant alone; every man and woman in the UNSC Marine Corps made just enough difference. And he'd be damned if he didn't give these novices a chance at that.

"Follow me," he added, hunkering low and passing over the Elite's body.

He sought after the nearest tent, whose tan fabric was lit up from the inside by long sequences of gunfire and plasma bursts. Here there would be, he hoped, the majority of the others at this camp; Sergeant Brian Cummings, this base's lead commander, should be inside that tent. Or at least so John hoped he remained alive.

This notion induced haste in his legs, bringing him to half his maximum speed. He pumped the shotgun thrice en route to the tent, taking down a wobbling Grunt with a Needler, an Elite under fire from those following him, and a Jackal whose shield was already depleted. It seemed that the whole Covenant conglomerate were here, except for Hunters. And John did not believe there were Hunters near, didn't as much as he hoped there weren't; if there were, despite John's persevering optimism and confidence, he figured they'd already be dead. Including him, even. They were all caught off-guard, that's for sure; he should have been more attentive, but it was true that the coup worked for the Covenant—a nighttime attack with cloaked Elites and a horde of Grunts and Jackals?

They made a mistake, though.

The Covenant probably had not assumed the Demon was located at this measly camp.

John approached the flapping entrance of the tent, which was splattered with blood, with the shotgun shouldered and his eyes attentive. He only hoped his remaining Marines were doing just the same—vigilant attention with weapons carried at a preparatory state.

Having decreased his speed upon entrance to the tent, whose sheets were tattered with both human and Covenant blood, John passed through the threshold slowly and quietly…to see a red-armored Elite handling Sgt. Cummings. The Elite, standing eight-and-a-half feet tall, easily dwarfed any human and towered above even the Master Chief by at least twelve inches; but here the bipedal creature held the Sergeant up by his throat, clawed fingers grasping his neck without lethality but with ferocity.

"You humans think you're so strong, so _arrogant_ in your safekeeping," the Elite spoke in clear English, though it was drowned by Covenant growling natural in its alien tongue. "But we _will_ find Earth…you are just delaying our finding it; we _will_ ascertain Earth, and we _will_ demolish it! You are just prolonging your race's suffering and—"

The Elite halted mid-sentence at the sound of a sliding stock. John pumped the shotgun and pressed the wide-bore muzzle squarely to the Elite's back. He pulled the trigger and the Elite fell forward, releasing Cummings as its entrails piled onto the floor. The creature fell upon its own viscera, shuddering and bleeding out the mouth before going stiff in the wake of death.

"I thought he'd never shut up," John said, cocking the shotgun and slinging it to rest on his shoulder.

"Thank you, Chief," Cummings replied with an unstable grin. He got to his feet, dusted himself off, and looked up at the Spartan. "I wasn't about to tell him where—"

"I know, Sir," John nodded. "I've got…forty-seven of our recruits here. We need to salvage our ammunition and what Marines we have left, then leave. This spot is obviously not safe."

"Absolutely, Chief," Cummings said, turning around and going to a Marine corpse. The man lay sprawled out on the floor, in a pool of his own blood. Cummings stooped to retrieve an M6G pistol and two spare magazines the Marine had kept. Pocketing them as he stood, the jungle green-clad Marine commander returned to face the Master Chief and his rallied recruits.

Cummings counted the Marines who were huddled tightly behind the Chief just in front of the entrance. He wouldn't mention to the Chief that there were only in fact thirty-nine of the Marines remaining, wouldn't mention to him that he may have let his guard down on their part and allowed more to die. No, Sgt. Cummings thought better of it, and at this cogitation turned back around and retrieved something else from the dead Marine's cadaver.

Dog tags. He pocketed these, too, and saw several of the recruits begin to do the same with other Marines' corpses that littered the tent's interior. They also policed these bodies for extra ammunition and other weapons, equipping it all for themselves, as good soldiers do. The Chief, however, just stood there, awaiting orders. Although the Master Chief has a higher ranking than most battlefield commanders—including Sergeant Cummings, here—he usually is not the one giving orders. Nor does he often take orders, but suggestions.

"From what I hear, most of the battle has died down," Cummings said in a melancholic manner. "Literally, I'm afraid…before we leave, search all the dead for ID and surplus ammunition. We will take the Scorpion on our leave, head nine clicks east for the nearest mobile base."

John nodded, saying "Yes, Sir," then turned and left the tent. The remaining mass of rookies parted like Moses' Red Sea to grant leeway for the Chief. Then they followed him, heeding Sgt. Cummings with a meticulously respectful eye…and then they were back in the murk.

Sergeant Cummings trailed the forty recruits and the Master Chief after assessing for the final time his loss of men in this tent. All the blood, the stench of lead and plasma in the atmosphere…he wanted to leave it, but he wanted to stay just the same.

Ultimately, he exited with head hung low and fingers gripping tightly the M6G.

It took the thirty-nine Marines, John, and Sergeant Cummings less than five minutes to search the dead bodies for ammunition and dog tags. They found more tags than ammunition, because most of the men and women had been sleeping or fooling around to have seized weapons for the surprise assault.

John's personal task was to assess not only the damage they took, but the damage they dealt. He meticulously but nimbly counted each Marine and Covenant corpse until he was able to correctly summarize the coup's results.

While the recruits gathered survivors, John reported to Cummings at the edge of the Scorpion tank.

"It was a small but mighty force, Sergeant," John said, glancing left-and-right. "Seven Elites and nine Grunts, plus three Jackals. We lost…twenty-eight men, total. There are four survivors; two wounded to point of the inability to walk. The others are perfectly intact."

"The Elites almost outnumbered the Grunts…" Cummings muttered. He shook his head, and scratched his chin in rumination. "Chief, did you establish what ranks the Elites belonged to?"

"Four of the Elites were Special-Ops, sir, with cloaking devices."

"Hence the surprise," Cummings murmured.

"Two were low-ranking field officers, Minors, and the last was an Elite Major—the one in your tent. All Grunts were basic subordinates, no Fuel Rod Cannons found just plasma pistols and rifles, and some Needlers."

"Hm…"

"Sir?"

"Why would the Covenant bombard a small mobile base such as this, and with their preeminent troops?"

"But they failed, Sergeant," John prompted.

"That they did, Chief," Cummings said under his breath, giving the Spartan a second glance.

"That they did…"

"Shall we?" John asked, hopping unto the Scorpion, boots scuffing titanium armor plating. He stood over the piloting bay and unlatched the hatch. It popped open with a metallic _clang_ and he squatted just over it.

Cummings chuckled to himself, shaking his head.

"You're not very spacious, Chief," he said. "And I'm not a midget."

John hadn't thought about that; two people can sit in the M808 Scorpion MBT's cockpit, but with a Spartan in it only a child would be able to fit comfortably. And Cummings, at six feet and 195 pounds, is not the best match.

"Apologies, Sir," John said, "would you like to, and I'll take the Warthog?"

After a moment of consideration, Cummings saw no better option than accord.

"You _are_ a better driver than I, Chief," Cummings admitted. "So, if you don't mind—"

"I don't," John replied, hopping down from the tank. His booted feet slammed into the dirt and he went stiff to gaze down at the Sergeant.

"Very well," Cummings said, climbing aboard the tank. "I _will_, however, need an operator for the machinegun, Chief. Another should fit fine in the cockpit with myself."

"Yes, Sir," John nodded, turning and jogging off to meet with the group of Marines.

"Master Chief, are we leaving?" one of the unharmed survivors asked, saluting.

"Yes," John said. "Sergeant Cummings needs a gunner for the Scorpion, and I need a passenger and my own gunner for the Warthog. It seems, too, that the Covenant took a couple Ghosts here, but are parked in the distance.

"Volunteers?"

Though many of the recruits wanted to drive a Ghost or man the Scorpion HMG, in the end it was much wiser for the Chief to select either of the survivors. He told a few of the recruits to help the two injured soldiers onto each Ghost—there were two of them, and they did not require footing to operate, just the thumbs for the manual throttles. He subsequently chose the two intact survivors to man the Scorpion coaxial gun and the M41 LAAG mounted at the rear of the Warthog. Figuring he could manage to fit two others on the Warthog with him and the gunner, John picked them from the recruits to sit in the passenger's seat and the other to ride astern directly behind the gunner. That left thirty-six remaining without any transportation. The only thing left to do was hitch a ride on the Scorpion. The multitude of Marines that formerly composited the whole camp here consisted of nearly a hundred. They had the possession of two other Warthogs, both of which the Chief found to be sabotaged by the Covenant.

"If we match the maximum limit," John had told the batch of lingering Marines, "three of you can sit on each track pod on the Scorpion. That's only twelve, though. Then there can be two on the back, up to four sitting elsewhere on it, and those left will walk. Is there anybody here—"

"Nobody needs to not walk," Sergeant Cummings had snapped as he approached behind John from the tank. He placed his hand up on the Spartan's left shoulder and said, "Chief, do what you need to do to fit as many men on the vehicles we've got. We won't be racing, and even if in combat the Scorpion's sluggish so walking shouldn't be an issue. Understood, Marines?"

"Yes, Sir!" they all saluted.

"Good, then get to it."

Ultimately it worked out just as John had spoke of, with a dozen walking along each side of the Scorpion. The remaining six walked beside the steady-going Warthog, three on either side. And, lastly, the other two Marines whose legs were shot-up piloted the whirring Ghosts in a line behind the tank.

John drove the 4x4 vehicle with a stable foot on the accelerator, but kept it slow. Behind him lagged the Scorpion. Despite being a 66-ton battle tank, the Scorpion rolled with a more manageable speed than most Earthbound vehicles of its ilk, and could traverse uneven terrain adroitly due to four individual track segments. As for the Warthog, or more formally the M12 LRV, as a light reconnaissance vehicle it has the ability to reach speeds of fifty to sixty miles-per-hour and can nimbly steer with superior traction. Its T-top roof panels provide passengers with something hang onto during turbulence and the convertible design makes boarding and exiting very easy.

"How far?" one of the Marines wouldn't stop asking.

John rolled his eyes, invisibly behind the helmet's visor, and sighed audibly.

"Six clicks," he said after calculating the approximate distance. "And stop asking…I will notify everyone once we're reached a kilometer's distance; from thereon radio contact should be available."

"Radio contact?" one of the other Marines, walking along John's side of the Warthog, asked curiously. "We have an intact radio? Where? Why don't we just call in right—"

"No," the gunner said, letting the Chief have a rest with words. "We don't have any radios; neither the Scorpion nor the Warthog come standard with radios, but we _do_ have an IB planted in the engine of both…"

"_IB_?"

"Indication Beacon," the Marine said. "A tiny device integrated in all UNSC vehicles, allowing it to be easily detected by friendly radars and thus establish radio communication with any nearby COM Links."

"But…we don't got any COM Links, do we?"

"Yeah, actually," he said, nodding toward the Chief, "we do."

"But I don't have the ability to make calls, only receive," John told the recruit.

"Ugh!" the Marine complained, throwing up his hands, "my legs are _killin__'_ me!"

After a few seconds of ensuing silence, save the constant whine of the Warthog's V8, John looked over at the apparently exhausted soldier and figured 'why not.'

"Marine, what's your name?" he asked.

"Lenny Bartman," he replied. He looked like a Lenny, whatever that may mean. He was very young, as all the recruits were, having a pallid face and scraggly hair. His eyes were filled with both the dreams and naïveté of youth. "Sir…"

"I'm going about ten miles-an-hour, Bartman," John said. He leaned back in his seat, a single hand gripping the zenith of the steering wheel. "And I know you're all walking fast, for the past few miles."

John turned his head and whistled, catching the nearest walking Marine on the passenger's side. He then spoke loudly, as to catch all of their attention.

"Don't take your time, now, but if you can manage it without falling—go on 'n' hop onto the hood. It could hold two of you—if you're not obese."

"We're _Marines_, Chief," Bartman said with a smirk, jogging up and climbing onto the hood. Once on, he realized it wouldn't be too comfortable due to the steady heat beneath his rump under the hood. Nonetheless, it was better than walking the remaining six kilometers. Concurrently came the other on the passenger's side, climbing up along Bartman.

The other four walkers near the Warthog sighed in exasperation. One of them tried to climb onto the rear side of the vehicle, and managed to successfully—now sitting there with legs dangling over the rear left fender. The man on the right side got to it and suddenly the Warthog hung low on its four wheels and lightweight chassis.

"Okay, that's enough," John snapped. "If we get any lower, we'll be scraping the ground."

"Sorry, Sir," one of the men said, and hopped off. Then off came the other, on the rear, but both Bartman and his comrade remained on the hood, relaxing.

"What's wrong with this thing?" the Marine in the passenger seat exclaimed. "It's whining like a Banshee!"

"The Warthog's fine—" John began to say, then realized the real-time irony to the soldier's simile. Ahead by about a hundred yards and quickly enclosing, soaring through the midnight sky, was a Covenant aircraft. The Banshee, an appellation perfectly apt for the sound it made during flight, screeched overhead. Its sheer presence arose a clamor from the Marines, but as it passed by and vanished in the distance to their six, everyone supposed it hadn't seen them.

John knew better than to assume, especially that.

"Everybody get _down_!" John shouted, as the Banshee gave the human platoon a wide berth from its airborne trajectory. Its return was associated with lustrous blasts from the twin plasma cannons at the head of its fuselage, raining down cerulean globules of directed energy upon the mobile targets. Plasma seared across the Scorpion's titanium surface, doing minor damage but killing a Marine in its path. The stream of consistent plasma fire continued along the single-file line of Marines, cutting up the sides of the Warthog and killing one of the men who'd just hopped off the back.

John didn't have time to feel the shame for that one, only regret for not acting immediately.

"Bartman!" John spat, jumping out of the Warthog's driver seat. "Take the wheel, and give me your pistol!"

Bartman was on the move, climbing into the moving Warthog as it decelerated, handing the Master Chief his M6G simultaneously. The Banshee was on its way back, to make a second strafing run. Everyone that had a weapon that wasn't a Needler or shotgun fired up at the Banshee. It was almost pitch black, but the headlamps on the Warthog gave some supplementary luminance while the Banshee's wingtips glowed a mauve beacon.

Although the Banshee received a hail of inaccurate gunfire from the more inexperienced Marines down below, its armor held tough and its pilot thumbed down the firing triggers. Cerulean plasma cut across the Warthog just as the human gunner thumbed back his own triggers. As the Banshee swept over the sluggish Warthog, plasma having sliced through its T-top and injuring its passenger, the gunner swung the M41 LAAG and crouched to get better aim. A stream of 7.62mm armor-piercing bullets spat forth from the three-barreled machinegun in an arcing trajectory while the Banshee soared away. Though not a rookie, the gunner wasn't paramount. His aim was slow to track the flying Banshee, but he did manage to get in at least half a dozen well-placed shots, creating a visible spark from the tail of the aircraft.

As it vanished into the darkness beyond, silence began to settle and then a sniper rifle sounded. Everyone looked around until their eyes met a recruit who'd just put in one last shot for the moment.

He shrugged.

"It's coming back, Chief!" somebody yelled, as the nails-on-blackboard sound returned.

"No," John said, barely loud enough for his nigh comrades to hear, "it's a different one."

This Banshee came in from the rear, and as John saw the Scorpion rotate its barrel to attempt a shot, a green chunk of plasma spat from underneath. It was from the Banshee's belly-mounted fuel rod cannon, an extremely lethal blast of plasma acting as the Covenant's equivalent to an SSM rocket. It was on, as always, a slow trajectory but arrived at its target just the same—one of the Ghosts. It struck the injured Marine who was driving it headlong, and John supposed he never even felt a thing; the hovercraft went up in a plume of blue-white flame, surrounded by an emerald mist from the plasmatic blast. The demolished remnants of the salvaged Ghost flipped airborne, and began to come down upon the other when the Banshee struck it with a volley of plasma fire. The directed energy cannons mounted on the nose of the Banshee lit up as they spat plasma and shredded the Ghost within seconds before it passed over.

As it did so, the other Banshee—assuming it was the same as earlier—arrived from the convoy's left side. Apparently this Banshee's fuel rod cannon was depleted, or else it would have used it by now. But instead it strafed the Warthog a second time with its plasma cannons, this time searing right through the vehicle's surface steel and abrading its underlying chassis. In this same instant John shot at the Banshee through the murk with the borrowed M6G, gazing through the scope for the best hit. Concurrently, however, a streak of plasma passed over the arms of the Warthog's gunner, severing them at the elbows. In a spray of blood the Marine collapsed unto his back, fingers still squeezing at the triggers, the dead weight of his detached arms pulling the LAAG to point its three conjoined barrels skyward. Coincidentally, a torrent of bullets from the machinegun scored the substructure of the Banshee, their armor-piercing capability dealing the necessary damage.

The Elite pilot, who operated the Banshee in a headlong position within the fuselage-embodied cockpit, received nine 7.62mm AP rounds to his underside. A few of the heavy-caliber bullets easily deactivated his body shielding, and those that followed punctured his flesh effortlessly. As his blood spurt over the controls and his last breath escaped his maw, the Elite lost control over the Banshee.

The other Banshee watched as its comrade plummeted nose-first into the earthen floor about thirty yards away, one wing snapping in severance whilst a squall of sparks arose in the gloom. It skidded along about ten meters before exploding in a billow of cerulean flame.

This sight caught the pilot off-guard as he steered his Banshee blindly to the left, trigger-fingers loosened from the controls.

The LAAG gunner was en route to a painful death via an excessive loss of blood, but his fellow Marines did their best to help him. They tore off pieces of their uniforms to utilize the cloth as tourniquets while another removed the severed arms from the machinegun to replace them with his own.

In the meantime, John shifted his feet to aim for the temporarily disoriented Banshee, crouched to one knee, and emptied the pistol's clip. At the same time all others reloaded, their convoy now halted. But John's single M6G pistol did not achieve the effects he'd desired, leaving the Banshee with a few seconds to get back on track—

The earth shook with a vociferous _boom_ and a gossamer trail zipped across the night sky just above the convoy. It angled up diagonally and its first and only contact was the airborne Banshee.

John wouldn't give Sgt. Cummings in the tank a thumbs-up until he finished watching the Banshee fall in ruins. The midair explosion illumined the direct vicinity as the Covenant aircraft ceased flying and began falling. The blast was radiant in a mixture of amber and blue flame.

'Beautiful' was the right term in such triumphant times as these.

The instant the obliterated Banshee hit the ground in a crackling heap of shrapnel, John turned to gaze at the Scorpion. Smoke, just barely visible in the midnight murk, rose up from the thick muzzle of the Scorpion's long barrel.

But only a few Marines hooted in victory.

John turned his head to catch a horrid sight of many Marines trying to heal the severely injured gunner. He took a few paces over to the back of the Warthog, grabbing the M90 shotgun from the cab before reaching it. He blindly returned the empty M6G to Bartman—who he figured would have ammunition for a reload—and halted at the rear of the vehicle. Raising the shotgun, he activated the flashlight and shone an elucidating beam on the scene.

The gunner who had been operating the light anti-aircraft gun had both arms messily cleaved at the elbows. Blood continued to flow through the wads of cloth which the Marines had stuck to the sanguine stubs, the makeshift tourniquets doing little help. The Marine himself, his face pallid with fear and agony, shuddered a few times in panic of death. The panic was also, of course, aroused by extreme pain. His vibratory manner did not cease until about a minute later, when his rapid breaths stopped short. His body jolted once more in the arms of the recruits in the back of the Warthog, then went still.

A Marine held his hung low, and closed his dead comrade's eyelids with his fingers.

Whether or not the gunner had died from panicked fright or excessive bleeding was extraneous; he died miserably, and despite all the aid of his newfound comrades. With him in this second coup of the night had fallen the pair of Ghost-driving Marines, another two in the Warthog, one on the tank, and the last on-foot.

Casualties are always heartfelt by the soldiers, and especially by those in more authoritative roles—like Cummings and John—because they usually feel the blame is on them.

John noticed that the rotary emplacement, or head, of the tank swiveled—its barrel like a finger pointing to anything that may be of danger. It was on the lookout for anymore Banshees, or whatever else that may be hostile. But Sgt. Cummings was not manning the cannon, John saw, because Cummings was walking towards the Chief now. John figured the other Marine was in the cockpit, hoping to be good at what he's doing, knowing that he is controlling the single most powerful weapon on the UNSC arsenal.

Other than the Master Chief, that is.

"Sir…" John began, glancing at the corpse of the gunner then back at Cummings.

"His body will be brought with us," the Sergeant said monotonously. "Those men that perished in the two Ghosts will be remembered, the best we humans can do. The others that have died…"

"There's a body to your left, Sir, and one lying on the Warthog. Both dead; I'll get their tags…do you want to—"

"Carry only what the Warthog can manage," Cummings said plainly. "We will hit maximum speed, or at least I will in the Scorpion. You take my six with the 'Hog and have a man on that gun to cover our ass. Maintain high speed, just don't lag or bump into my rear. Stop me with a gunshot if you've obtained contact with anyone UNSC."

"Understood."

"Good," Cummings said with a thwarted sigh, turning to head back to the tank.

And so John did just that. The haste which fueled his legs was not alone as his fellow subordinate Marines obeyed Cummings to the letter. They would no longer be denoted as 'measly rookies' because they'd seen their fair share of battle—their fair share of hell. And they weren't going back; no, they were just now climbing to the surface.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Their convoy had been reduced from an original forty-five to a current thirty-nine.

And not only had they lost manpower but vehicular strength, too. The two stolen Ghosts were destroyed and the Warthog's rear suspension was damaged due to an onslaught of smoldering plasma from one of the Banshees. But the 4x4 UNSC jeep carried on, trailing the Scorpion tank that maxed 35-mph over smooth terrain. Driving the Warthog, however, wasn't John; Bartman drove it and drove it well, being his first time. Instead John manned the turret, knowing factually that he'd be able to operate it far better than any of these Marines. Plus, if he obtained contact with anybody over his integral COM Link he wouldn't have to worry about paying attention to the driving—although it was imperative he continue to heed his inconsistent surroundings.

This radio contact arrived as they neared the kilometer radius from where Sergeant Major Johnson's mobile camp should be located.

_"UMB Charlie-19, this is UMB Charlie-19, over."_

John bolted upright, standing on the LAAG platform of the moving Warthog. He put a hand to the ear of his helmet, the other still cinching the gun.

"This is SPARTAN-117," John responded. The Warthog passenger shifted his weight to gaze up at the Master Chief, having heard him speak. "I repeat, this is SPARTAN-117, en route to your base. We're survivors of UMB Gamma-12. Over."

_"We read you, Master Chief,"_ the voice replied. It was a female tone with a mechanical tint, but

John could discern it as human. It was the crackling in the COM Link that masked it as robotic.

_"What is your status? Over."_

"Thirty-nine including Sergeant Cummings and I," John said, glancing around. The light of dawn was slowly peeking up from the mountainous horizon. "Carrying three dead; tank lightly damaged and Warthog chassis impaired, both from previous Banshee attack. No wounded. Over."

There was a short pause, then. At the same time Bartman loosened his foot on the accelerator, the Warthog slowing down. He glimpsed the Spartan standing behind him with a hand to his ear. Bartman knew they had reached the necessary distance to obtain radio contact.

_"We're sending a Warthog over for extra carriage. Continue your route, we have you on radar. Over and out."_

The COM Link went dead.

John returned his hand to the turret and smiled what smile he could manage.

He then crouched low and fired four shots skyward. The reports were loud and low, while four brass casings spat out from the breech and jingled to the floor of the pivotal platform.

Seconds later the Scorpion rolled to a stop, lurching on its tracks. The hatch flipped open and out popped Cummings like a groundhog out of its hole. His eyes targeted the Spartan and they alone asked the question.

John wouldn't yell, he wouldn't get up to tell the Sergeant exactly what was going on, he just nodded and signaled forward, then a forefinger went up. Cummings nodded in affirmation and ducked back down into the cockpit. The Scorpion started up again and Bartman drove the Warthog on.

"What'd they say?" the passenger asked. Obviously he didn't comprehend the hand signals.

"We're about a kilometer away," John answered, "and they'll send a Warthog to help carry our dead and facilitate the itinerary."

"Oh," the Marine said, nodding to himself and sitting back in the seat. "Cool."

It wasn't but three minutes later that the Warthog arrived from UNSC Mobile Base Charlie, sector 19. But as it sped into visibility of the convoy, some of the recruits were disappointed. Those that didn't know what John had told Bartman and his comrade were figuring they'd send either a Pelican by-air or at least a Scorpion; or, at the very least, an M12 LRV. Instead, it was an M831 TT. This Warthog variant was the same basic model as the LRV except with the LAAG turret removed and replaced by a basket-like rear able to seat four additional people.

More apt for the situation at hand, but not as imposing as the models with a rear-mounted turret. Nonetheless, the cheering arose before too long, and didn't cease when the driver e-braked the Warthog into a halting drift. Dirt and dust was kicked-up in a cloud of muck, then slowly settled while the convoy came to a stop.

John hopped off from the LAAG platform and then ambled over to the arrived Warthog.

Its driver, a female of about 5'8" with short ruddy hair, climbed out of the vehicle and stood to salute the approaching Master Chief. Behind the Spartan, she saw, approached also Sergeant Cummings.

"Sergeant Brian Cummings," he said, saluting once he arrived alongside the Chief.

"Corporal Camille Hanes," she replied, dropping the salute. "I came with message that you were attacked last night and this was your convoy of survivors…?"

Cummings nodded. "Yes, that's us. We're carrying all the dead we could manage; the tank's fine, but the 'Hog has structural damage."

"Understood, Sir," she said, pointing to the Warthog which sat behind her. The engine was still running, humming instead of whining at its low-gear state. John didn't know much of those models, because they're more for personnel carriage and the movement of supplies than battle-worthy, but he figured because of the need for speed when pervading an enemy full of troops but with no gun that the engine is probably mightier than the LRV.

"This can seat two up front, three if need be, and four in the back. I'll take the dead weight first, and if more room is available then it'll hold as much as possible."

"Thank you, Corporal Hanes," Cummings said, simpering the best he could. "So you came from UMB Charlie-19, yes?"

She nodded.

"And they sent just you?" John asked monotonously.

"Yes, Sir," she said, "I'm best with the 'Hog, believe it or not. Besides, they're all preparing to move-out, ASAP, Sir."

"Why?" Cummings said, eyes squinted, mind working curiously.

"We've intercepted Covenant communications regarding the sweeping of sectors 10 through 20. That's the both of us, Sir. They spoke of Banshee assailants and Special-Ops Elites to eliminate all mobile bases. They're coming through our backyard, Sergeant, to cut off our supplies and hamstring us."

It was all very clever on the Covenant's part, which was one unfortunate thing that most UNSC commanders abhorred—their strategic intellect. Although some of their subspecies, such as the Grunts and Hunters are typically doltish, it is the Prophets and Elites who are at the reins of the Covenant.

And therein lies ardent intelligence, zealous determination, and merciless grit.

"When is the base planning to relocate?" Cummings asked.

"We're not, really," Hanes replied. She felt thirty-some eyes on her from the Convoy, but continued unperturbed. "Because most Pelicans are busy at the hangars, preparing lift-off and carriage into space—"

"They're taking the fight off the planet?"

"The major airborne forces are, yes. In hopes of repelling imminent onslaughts of the Covenant fleets. But we, infantry, are being picked-up by some Hornets at hours, to be relocated in the city. They're sending more than a dozen Hornets, and we've been told to take all that remain in these sectors."

"Then…let's go," Cummings said, almost sighed.

"Why would they let someone like _you_ join the Marines? So dainty," one of the recruits spoke softly to Hanes. She gave a false smile in return, even as another Marine said: "Wouldn't wanna get any blood on that pretty face."

As she helped the Marines unload their dead comrades from the LRV, Hanes replied to the last statement with: "And the same to you—so shut it."

While a few of the recruits jeered at the man for the rejoinder she shot him with, others simply widened their eyes and shook their heads in a tsk-tsk manner.

In the meantime, John and Cummings stood aside from the infantry with solemn talk between them.

"Do you approve of this?" John asked.

"Of what?"

"The relocation of infantry," John said, "and bringing the airborne fight to space…?"

"Not quite, Master Chief," Cummings replied, his response as hazy as his countenance. "I…I have a sister whose specialty is flying, you see, Pelicans. And so she'll be up and…while I _do_ have all the confidence in the world in her as a pilot, I just don't see the chances. I mean—an entire fleet of Covenant, and seems like with every passing day there arrives a dozen more."

"We _will_ win this fight," John said simply.

"Oh, I wish I was as optimistic as you, Chief, but the reality is that I'm old…or _getting_ old, whichever way you decide to put it…and although they say the old are wise, my wisdom is worth nothing more than cynicism and dou—"

"_Sir_," John blurted, but in his low voice. He seized Cumming's shoulder, shaking him gently but hard enough. Cummings dropped his head, and stopped talking. He realized, then, too, that a few eyes were on him. Almost half a dozen. But he wasn't going to tell them off, the Marines, it wasn't about that anymore.

They needed to get on the move, though.

"My apologies, Master Chief," Cummings said, producing a weak smile. "My pessimism aside, I will see through to it that—"

"Sir, we need to get moving," John interrupted. "Time's not on our side, and neither are the Covenant."

"Right," Cummings sighed, turning and ambling back to the Scorpion. "Right…"

"I'll continue with the Warthog turret," John said, taking naturally big steps back to the LRV.

"We'll keep on with the convoy's arrangement…"

"We'll take point," Hanes insisted, four recruits boarding the M831 TT near her. The three cadavers lay stacked in the passenger's seat, leaving the rear vacant. Corporal Hanes didn't seem to mind the men piling into the 'Hog, or at least she hadn't noticed them yet.

"But with the five-liter V8," she added, "and the lack of artillery defenses, would you approve of us speeding ahead? Sergeant? We'd try 'n' hit maximum speed, though it gets bumpier as we near the base. And if we arrive before y'all show-up, I'll be sure to tell them you're on your way. The Hornets will be standing-by, and rearmament may be available before leave…"

"Of course," Cummings finally said, nodding. He raised a hand to salute, and she returned it. A couple of the Marines who stumbled onboard the Warthog saluted, too, clumsy but steady enough. Cummings, turning, saw the Master Chief embark the Warthog's LAAG platform. As he climbed back onto the Scorpion, hatch held open by the last of the non-recruit Marines, Cummings called to the Spartan: "You watch my six, now, y'hear? And I'll keep a watchful eye on our noon. Be seein' you again real soon, Chief."

All John did in response was salute. That was all that the Sergeant's words warranted.

And then Cummings vanished down into the cockpit of the tank, his subordinate comrade following just after him to man the coaxial gun. Once the Scorpion got back on the move again, its rearward diesel roaring to life, the M831 TT growled to life and Bartman restarted the LRV.

Corporal Hanes veered the Troop Transport out in front of the Scorpion, which was slowly gaining speed. But the TT snarled up to fourth gear already, puffing exhaust steam from its tailpipes as fuel burned and torque met the wheels. The hilly terrain Hanes had spoken of was antecedently beginning, seen by the few Marines hitching rides on the Scorpion's track pods from the soft suspension bouncing of the TT. Despite the rugged terrain, however, the off-road Warthog met its match and maintained control; either that or Hanes was truly elite in driving.

Or both.

Bartman, on the other hand, wasn't a wheelman—let alone a connoisseur behind the controls of a 4x4 military vehicle. One that he's never driven before, but fortunately has had some experience with civilian trucks back in the city. Of all people, too, it was John who was most comfortable. Standing up in that heavy MJOLNIR suit under the rising sun would make most pour sweat, but John's enhanced physicality delayed the perspiring process in the salvaging of electrolytes and the maintenance of vigor. Yet his mind was exhausted from the past events, while his comfort level was high: he stood erect, feet planted firmly onto the pivotal platform and hands gripping the gun; the bumps in the earth which affected the smoothness of the ride did not distress him at all.

Meanwhile, Bartman and the two men sharing the passenger's seat with the medial console received discomfort in their lower-bodies.

The sun was beginning to peek over the lateral of the horizon in the distance, over a row of grassy mountains. Its orange semi-circle of radiance glowed brilliantly in the purplish haze of dawn, setting the scene for a beautiful environmental tableau.

_It'll be light soon,_ John thought. He liked fighting in sunlit areas much more than dark ones, not only because he can discern his enemies well but because he can manipulate it. In the murk, when some Elites have the ability to become invisible with their bodily cloaking technology, the backdrop of deep shadows do nothing for his eyes. However, in the light John can distinguish distortions in the background if the transparent Elite walks before a tree, bush, or fellow Covenant; this provides John with superiority on the battlefield against what are considered to be one of the greatest combative threats.

Other advantageous reasons for fighting in luminosity include the easiness of motion without the caution of bumping into something, the ability to see more clearly without the sole beam of a flashlight, and the confirmation of a killed enemy. The abilities for John to aim better, reload more efficiently, and use cover to maximum efficacy are all associated with well-lit battlegrounds and thus relay to his own utmost potential.

"Drop ahead!" somebody wailed. It was Corporal Hanes. Her voice rose over the concoction of big-block engines rumbling, tires scratching dirt, and a zephyr which swept the faces of the Marines.

At her note everyone braced for possible landing impact, because nobody slowed down.

John leaned to the side, peering over the 'shoulder' of the Scorpion to see the Warthog TT vanish over a descending inclination. The tank followed thereafter, with a long ten-second gap between it and Hanes's vehicle.

"Slow down," John told Bartman as the tank reached the downhill slope's crest. "Don't wanna get a fender-bender with the tank."

Bartman acknowledged this without further ado, but was a good driver at not stomping brakes. Nor did he ever go anywhere near the emergency-brake handle, yet instead his hands remained gripping the wheel while the Warthog's front wheels hit the crest. The front suspension bounced as the tires met a slight incline at the edge, sending it airborne. The vehicle's rear wheels never touched the crest and wouldn't touch the ground until about thirty feet down. The Warthog soared through the air in a narrow arc, plunging almost nose-first into the slope.

While Bartman panicked with a gasp and clenched teeth, eyes wide and fingers cinching the steering wheel, the Marine in the passenger's seat pointed skyward and hooted adolescently. John, on the other hand, actually braced for impact: he bent his knees just a touch and resituated his feet on the platform to gain the best angle for a rough landing.

When the LRV finally touched ground, its front two wheels struck the dirt instead of its bumper, saving the Warthog from what would truly be a rugged landing.

Not far down the hill rolled the MBT on its tracks, all pod-riding passengers still on their seats. Afterall, the tank hadn't gone far airborne—a mere ten feet at most. The instant its planar tracks came in contact with the coarse surface of the slope, it was all downhill. Literally, too. Its 66-ton weight bore down on it, causing the vehicle to roll steadily in descent.

The TT, on the other hand, had a currently crooked front bumper from _its_ rough landing, after jumping the crest at sixty miles-an-hour. None of the corpses had come loose of their seatbelt security, and neither had Hanes nor any of the Marines she had on the TT. They were a bit roughened-up, sure, but no harm done.

The M831 TT was the first one to hit the base, though, and at a gaining speed of nearly fifty miles-per-hour. This time the front wheels absorbed the impact of the abrupt planar ground level, sending it off in a lurch with speed gaining behind its wheels.

Ahead, now, sat a large compound. It was interlinked with tents made of resilient fabric and its posts were of similar composition. It looked more like a vast teepee than a military outpost, but outpost it is. Or _was_. In the distance, kicking up a whole smokescreen of sand and dirt, hovered a trio of Hornets.

Angular, thin, metallic fighter jets these aircraft were the basis of the UNSC air assault.

"There—" the LRV passenger said, half-standing and pointing. Just then the Scorpion ahead of them hit the base and bounced gently; the Warthog swiftly followed. The passenger retook his seat to keep himself from springing off.

"Ever fly a Hornet, Chief?" Bartman asked, glancing astern and up at the Spartan.

John, as honest and straightforward as he is, just shook his head.

As the last remaining Spartan on Reach—or at least that he knew of—John figured it was time he tried out everything there was to try. But there were only a few vehicles that he's yet to have the chance to operate, whereas all the weapons in the UNSC's arsenal—including a vast majority of Covenant armaments—he has used. Never has he flown, or let alone ridden, a Hornet. He's been a passenger more times than he could remember on a Pelican dropship, but he's never piloted one, let alone been in the cockpit. Whereas with a Phantom—a Covenant dropship—he's neither flown nor even ridden in one of all his life. Of course, nobody has—of all the salvaged Covenant weaponry and captured vehicles, never in the history of this war has any human willingly stepped inside a Phantom. Either you've been captured or you're in a body bag whence you enter.

But of all things, a Hornet…!? John knew this was his chance to fly one, or at least ride on one of its running-board platforms if nothing else.

By the time the LRV hit the bottom of the hill, the TT had reached the UNSC mobile base. It wasn't mobile anymore, of course, but surely it still had available MRE's and canteens. And for John, rearmament.

Once the LRV skidded to a halt just behind the stopped Scorpion, John leapt off of the platform, boots slamming to the ground and body going erect again. He met with Cummings even before Bartman was able to shutdown the engine.

"---


End file.
